‘It was a good mission,’ he told us, but not an especially remarkable one. It’s just what they do. ‘It’s always a successful anti-narcotics operation when none of our staff are kidnapped or injured and none of our aircraft are damaged.’
We’d heard enough. It was time to get in there ourselves. We wanted a mission. And as someone once said, for our sins they gave us one.
Back in Bogotá, and our meeting with John Orejuela. As we stood at the memorial to fallen officers, we wondered just what lay ahead. Even Orejuela himself didn’t know – COPES missions are so secret, so sensitive, that all details are kept classified from everyone but the highest top brass until the last minute. We followed our man into the commando HQ and he explained that the only info he had right then was that, whatever it was going to be, it was happening tonight. It was time to get suited and booted.
Inside the compound – more like a military barracks than any kind of police station – we followed Orejuela into the armoury and watched as he ran an inventory of his weapons. One by one, he methodically took the guns from the racks and checked them.
‘American weapons,’ he explained with a grin. ‘Rifle M4.’ We recognised this weapon – it’s standard army issue, the kind of machine-gun they’re still using in Afghanistan.
Next up was something we’d seen in films and on telly, but never in real life – and certainly never expected a cop to be handling. It was an awesome looking thing, a stubby barrel and locking mechanism maybe a foot and a half long. Orejuela checked it, then locked it expertly on to his machine-gun. Suddenly the weapon was twice the size and about 10 times as nasty. ‘Grenade launcher,’ he said, simply.
That just left the pistol. Standard issue Glock, with two magazines. It was strapped around his waist. ‘If we have a problem with this weapon,’ he indicated the grenade launcher, ‘then we have this weapon,’ and he hefted the M4 again. ‘And if we still have a problem, then we have the pistol.’ And if the pistol’s lost too? Without a word he unsheathed a knife, its blade spotless, glittering, reflecting our faces even as we looked at it.
On went military-style fatigues and into a rucksack was packed headgear for night vision, and Orejuela was set. In the barracks around us, other policemen went through the same routine in silence, each concentrating on their equipment, knowing that, wherever they were going that night, and whatever they’d be up against, any slips or omissions now could mean the difference between life and death.
Finally, we followed him into the briefing room. Sixteen commandos sat at flimsy-looking formica desks, eyes intent on the commanding officer, who stood like a teacher in front of a map and an overhead projector. He talked fast, in Spanish; we couldn’t keep up. Nobody asked questions, and the whole thing was over in 10 minutes.
Afterwards, we asked Orejuela what was happening.
It seemed that the police had received a tip-off about the location of known terrorists – members of the rebel guerrilla group, the FARC. Tonight, under cover of darkness, COPES were to execute a surprise helicopter raid on the remote hideout. They were flying out at midnight precisely: the last duty of the briefing officer had been to ensure all watches were synchronised.
‘We are going to look for terrorists,’ he explained simply. ‘It’s about terrorists. We’re going to catch them; there are three or four important guys they want us to bring in. We are going to have to keep our concentration because it’s classified high risk, the most dangerous it can get. They will be carrying similar weapons to those we use here. They use AK47 machine-guns…The weapons that they use are very good.’
Orejuela has had many run-ins with the guerrillas during his nine years on the force.
‘I’d say that on 60 per cent of operations they shoot at us. We know that the guerrillas have very good weapons. We have to be ready to fight with them.’
We hadn’t forgotten where we’d met the young commando – or that he had lost his best friend on a recent operation. ‘That operation was dangerous because we had 16 guys against 200,’ he told us. ‘And we lost five. Five policemen. It marked my life. When we lose a partner it’s like losing a brother. This is my second family. It’s very hard.’
But Orejuela has a reason to keep going. His father was a cop, and if that’s given him a keen understanding of just how dangerous the job is, it’s also instilled in him a belief that what he is doing is important. Not just for Colombia, but for his own family.
Smiling again, he produced a wallet from his pocket and fished out a photo: a boy of maybe nine or 10 years old, looking both proud and embarrassed in his Sunday-best outfit of crisp white shirt, tie and blue tank-top. He had one hand on his hip and he stared straight at the camera, his face steady, unsmiling.
‘This is my son,’ he said. ‘I’m doing this because I want a better country for my son. Without drugs and without terrorists. Somebody has to do this job. This is my time right now.’
We looked again at the snap: the boy may not have had Orejuela’s smile, but there was something in his eyes that was the same. He looked like a future cop.
If Orejuela joined the police in the first place because he wanted to follow in his father’s footsteps, it didn’t take long before he knew he was ready to step into the most dangerous law-enforcement job in Colombia. After just two years working the streets in the Bogotá Metropolitan Police, he put in for a transfer to COPES. He hasn’t looked back.
‘We do it because we love our jobs,’ he told us. ‘What can I say? We love it. Every week we train because we have to be ready. Everybody feels scared but we have to do it. Here in Colombia, somebody has to do it. We are prepared to do everything here – for Colombia and for our families.’
Around us, as we chatted beside Orejuela’s locker, his kitbag and weapons between us, we noticed other officers stepping past, all headed in the same direction. We checked our (admittedly unsynchronised) watches – there were still some hours to go before midnight.
‘They’re going to the chapel,’ explained Orejuela. ‘For each of us this could be our last mission. Many of the men want to pray.’
Just past midnight and we were airborne. Breathing hard and crammed into a Black Hawk helicopter with 16 commandos, 32 guns and hundreds of rounds of ammunition. All the men wore their night-vision helmets – the operation was to take place under complete darkness. Everything, right down to the chopper’s control panel, was blacked out.
No big-match nerves here, no psyching up and hyping up. The boys were calm. They knew what they had to do.
The target was an isolated group of houses just 30 miles from the base, where FARC members were believed to be hiding out. Intelligence had reported up to four important figures in the movement to be present, guarded by a security force of 20 men armed with AK47 assault rifles.
We were outnumbered already.
We were about to ask Orejuela about the odds, when we were silenced by a firm hand. The location had been sighted – a clearing in the jungle containing a cluster of four houses, plus outbuildings. The Black Hawk dropped fast. It was time to move in.
Dropping to a crouch from the moment they hit the deck, the commandos moved fast and low towards the buildings, spreading out as they went, each of them slipping silently through the grass, safety off, poised to react instantly and ruthlessly to any attack.
Within moments the principal property had been surrounded, every exit covered. All attention was fixed on the doors, the windows. Where would the attack come from? The door opened, spilling sudden fierce light into the blackness, and figures emerged. There were raised voices, shouting, arms in the air…but no shooting. No guns. No terrorists.
The squad leader took three men inside. What they found was not in the briefing. The house was full of people all right: men, women, children, all taking part in some birthday, christening or wedding celebration. As a thorough search of the property turned up nothing, Orejuela grew exasperated.
We’d been done. Either