The Meeting Point

* * *

Most of the night General Arrocha and his key staff officers were discussing the upcoming offensive against UNITA. "Los de Abajo," he called them – literally "Those from Below," but figuratively "The Underdogs." After spending nearly two years in Central America working with the Sandinista forces, he very much admired his adversaries. From the reports he read in Luanda, they would have made excellent students of his insurgent warfare tactics. General Ortiz, for his part, was adamant that the rebel problem be quashed, eliminated once and for all. Pressure was mounting as security began to deteriorate in areas that had previously been considered free of guerilla activity. Arrocha was deemed to be the best candidate to lead the upcoming offensive because he could think and act like the rebels. His tactics were unorthodox, his strategies effective. Raúl handpicked the officers for this command, officers he had trained and who were not ingrained in regimented Army tactics nor sidetracked by political rhetoric. Cunning and stealth would be the keys in this campaign.

Entering the rear door of the lead coach, returning from his walk, General Arrocha questioned one of his officers, "¿Que pasa, Octavio?"

"Nada, mí general," responded Coronel Jimenez, his second-in-command. "Nada," he repeated wearily.

Arrocha retook his seat and checked his watch again. In less than twenty minutes they would be in Huambo.

* * *

Koenig had already pulled the clear goggles over his eyes, beneath his helmet, and then led his fire team to the front of the train, focusing on the lead coach, anticipating where Raúl might be. He felt a burning sensation in his nostrils as he approached, an acrid odor wafting through the air from the expended ordnance. With lightning speed, impressive for such a massive man, Wellington hoisted himself up the steps at the front of the passenger car, preparing to enter. Koenig, Smit, and Ryan were right behind, shedding their Alice packs on the front stoop and assembling at the door, H&K MP5 SD6s drawn to shoulder level, stocks extended. Koenig noticed immediately that the car was listing to the left and that the floor had buckled from the crash. At the count of three, they rolled a couple of DefTec No. 25 flash-bang grenades through the door. If the train wreck hadn’t disoriented the occupants, the sound and flash, equal to almost two million lumens, surely would. They waited a moment, protecting their eyes from the bright torrent of light. The explosion was deafening, stinging the eardrums. Then they burst through the door in choreographed fashion, scanning left, right, left – as rehearsed over and over in the final weeks in French Guiana – as Koenig shouted, "Alto! Manos arriba! Manos arriba!" One man tried to draw a weapon. He was in Smit’s field of fire. The commando did not hesitate. POP! POP! The tango went down backwards. Another challenged from the other side – Ryan repeated the action. POP! POP! Koenig ordered again, "Manos arriba! Manos arriba!" Most of the occupants were badly shaken from the crash, exacerbated by the flash-bangs. Actual resistance was minimal, most still trying to decipher what had happened. Slowly they began to comprehend the officer’s words and brought their hands over their heads. Outside, a lopsided battle was being waged – the train’s occupants being either stunned, injured, or already killed; intense weapons fire accompanied by the periodic explosion of grenades resonated as the other fire teams executed their part of the operation. However, the four CQB team members remained focused, concentrating solely on their objective. They forced the coach’s occupants toward the rear, converging on a group of five prisoners – all of whom, based on the embroidery on their epaulets, were FAR officers. "Alto!" Koenig ordered sternly again as the passengers faced their attackers, who were looking down the barrels of their drawn H&Ks. The Cubans were speechless, mesmerized with shock from the crash, coupled with the fact that Corporal Wellington’s brutal stare was the most intimidating of all, complemented by his large physique. Koenig waited, ensuring that the prisoners did not try anything retaliatory. His finger rested perilously on the trigger, instinctively ready to fire if one or more tried to make a hostile move.

"Klaar!" called out Lance Corporal Smit from the right flank. No threats.

"Klaar!" confirmed Lance Corporal Ryan from the left.

"Klaar!" concurred Wellington.

"Clear!" added Koenig. Having received confirmation from his fire team that they were in fact in control of the situation – at least for the moment, he scanned the assembled group through the cross hairs of his H&K, concentrating on their faces. There was Raúl! He was the second man from the left, appearing very much the same as in the dossier photograph Diefenbok had shown him back in January. Besides, he could never forget the Arrocha chin, despite the thin beard – it was hereditary. So this would be their ignoble moment of reunion – Deke staring at his former classmate and friend down the barrel of a rifle – Raúl’s rendezvous with destiny. His face was blackened from the dust and smoke, a fresh gash appeared across his forehead, his duty uniform soiled. He looked impotent, hands raised, clasped together over his thinning black hair. There was no expression, except for the nonplussed look in his eyes. Without moving his weapon or shifting his concentration, Koenig said simply, "Ryan, General Arrocha is the second from the left. Cuff ‘em." Despite the overwhelming symphony of gunfire and confusion outside, the lance corporal understood the order clearly through the earpiece of his Motorola tac-com radio.

"Yes, luitenant kommandant," the South African said. He immediately shouldered his H&K securely and walked over to the man. Reaching into one of the pockets of his assault vest, he produced a set of plastic riot cuffs and reached for the indicated prisoner.