Commandos And Cocaine: The Frontline of the War on Drugs

June 22, 2006 — -- The news this week that a major component of the U.S.-backed "war on drugs" seems to be failing brought back a flood of memories for me.

The reports come from Colombia where according to the United Nations coca production increased by eight percent last year. That despite record drug seizures and aerial fumigation of coca crops. And the number is probably conservative. The U.S. Office of National Drug Control Policy reported in April that Colombia's production of coca was up 26 percent.

Coca is the key ingredient in the production of cocaine. The vast majority of which comes from Colombia. American taxpayers have spent $4 billion since 2000 helping the Colombians combat rebels and the coca trade.

My journal from an unforgettable May 2002 assignment into one of the most dangerous places on earth:

It was when the Major ran through the warehouse of weapons we might face that I began to turn white. I noticed my breath becoming shorter, my fists clench. It was the picture of the SAM on the screen that really unnerved me. SAM as in Surface-to-Air Missile. In this case surface-to-helicopter-in-the-air. In a few hours -- weather permitting -- I would be in one of those helicopters.

Then there were the diagrams of the guerilla's Viet Cong-style land traps: loosely concealed caverns designed to ensnare unsuspecting enemy who set foot on them. My clothes clung to my body, drenched in sweat from the thick tropical air and a serious dose of anxiety.

This is Cucuta, a dusty tropical city of about 600,000 high in the Eastern Andes. The Venezuelan border is literally at the end of the street. Bogotá, the Colombian capital, is 550 kilometers away. Despite its size, Cucuta is remote. The city is surrounded by spectacular mountains and arid plains. And jungle. Lots of jungle. It is the perfect locale for the two things that bedevil Colombia: coca and rebels.

It is early evening. I am sitting in the upper reaches of the steeply-raked auditorium of the regional barracks of Colombia's National Police. Sixty-five young Jungla Comandos ("Hoon-GLA Coe-MAN-dose" in Spanish), the elite Jungle Commandos of the Colombian anti-narcotics unit are earnestly absorbing a detailed briefing of tomorrow's mission.. Major Javier Alvarez is running through a very sophisticated series of power point demonstration, using his little red beam of light to highlight cocaine labs concealed in the thick jungle and photos of the armaments guerillas have been known to use to defend those labs.

Just north of Cucuta is an area that has the misfortune of being home to all three of Colombia's rebel groups. Because it's so close to Venezuela it's easy to get the drugs out of the country. So the rebels fight for control of the source of cocaine: coca leaves.

The Jungla Comandos have been around for about a dozen years. But it was only when the U.S. started supporting their missions that they became the crack unit they are now. It was simply a matter of money. The U.S., through a foreign policy begun by Clinton, made Colombia the third-largest recipient of U.S foreign aid. It's called Plan Colombia. It has cost US taxpayers $4 Billion in the last six years. The Jungla Comandos are where the abstract notion of foreign policy becomes very concrete. The U.S. has paid for all the helicopters, the armaments, the radios, the satellite phones, even the commando's helmets. And many of the commandos were trained by the U.S Marines, at U.S. expense. That is the story I have come to Cucuta to report. I would soon learn the other side of this story: the brains and the bravery in this mission are all Colombian.

At 6 a.m. the next morning we pull into the Cucuta airport as the tropical threaten to cancel the day's mission.. On the tarmac next to a long brick hangar 11 helicopters sit waiting: Nine Huey II's, a Bell, and a ferocious-looking Blackhawk, which will be the colonel's airborne mission control. (In an hour a sleek intelligence plane will arrive from Bogotá. It will circle above the choppers, overseeing communications.)

A few hours later the rain is a faint drizzle. To the north -- the direction we'll be heading -- the early morning fog has lifted, the sky begins to lighten. Word comes from the Colonel. We're going.

Suddenly the languorous morning shifts into high gear. Commandos cluster around their appointed choppers. They're strapping on 60 pounds of gear. Our escort is a Sgt. Harly Gomez Villanueva, a slight, friendly commando who seems smothered by the kit he is carrying. As he shows us to our helicopter I ask him how old he is.

"Vinte-siete," he replies, twenty seven. And then he says something more.

"No puedo escuchar," I say, his voiced drowned by the helicopter blade whirling around us.

Harly takes my notepad and writes: O+.

"Mi sangre," he says as he points his name on the back of his helmet and his blood type next to it. He smiles.

Our trip begins in the Commander's Blackhawk. I count 18 inside, including our camera team and the two pilots and the commander and a dozen commandos. The commandos inside are the emergency reinforcements and medics. They'll hit the ground only if there's trouble. The Colonel sits in his command perch just behind the pilots. No seats for the rest of us, just squeeze in. We do. A gun butt cuts into in my back, equipment belts press into my legs.