kind or another. And Orejuela didn’t like it one bit. As we wasted time in this house, the helicopter was a sitting duck, an easy target alone in the fields on the edge of the jungle – and the terrorists could easily be regrouping, preparing themselves to strike.
He beckoned us over and we sprinted towards him, mimicking the commandos’ crouching run, trying to look everywhere at once, all too aware of the hidden threat in the darkness.
‘It’s a bit difficult because there’s not just one house here,’ he explained in a whisper, his eyes still scanning the surrounding trees. ‘We’ve got three or four houses here. So when we landed in the fields they could quickly go.’
Unheard by us, the order came and Orejuela and his unit were moving again, slipping away from the first house and taking up positions around the others. If the terrorists had escaped into the jungle then there was little they could do – trying to follow them into the dense trees would be suicidal, even with their night-vision helmets. But if they had simply decamped to another building then there could still be a result to be had. Or a disaster. It was a chance they had to take.
One by one the houses were surrounded, searched, secured. It was not the ideal way of doing things and left the unit dangerously exposed each time they moved to a new building…but it was the only way they could work it.
Crouched where Orejuela had left us, squatting in the long grass, eyes straining in the blackness, nerves stretched to breaking point and with every hair on the back of our necks prickling in anticipation of a sudden shout, a burst of automatic gunfire, an explosion of pain and the end of everything, it was almost more than we could handle. This didn’t feel much like policing. This didn’t feel like The Bill, NYPD Blue, Miami Vice or The Wire. This felt like war. This felt like…Apocalypse Now.
Suddenly, like a ghost in the dark, Orejuela materialised in front of us again. He didn’t seem any more relaxed. No terrorists had been found – and that was a bad thing.
‘Now we have control here,’ he whispered. ‘We have night vision and security around the houses. Nobody can walk in here without us seeing. We have control now.’ He paused and gestured with his machine-gun towards the edge of the jungle, the huge mass of trees looming at the fringes of the clearing like a tidal wave about to break. ‘The problem is that the people have run. They could be anywhere. That could be a big problem for us.’
Other figures loomed out of the night: the commandos were falling back, retreating to the helicopter, preparing to leave. The guerrillas had got away. There was nothing more they could do. We returned to base empty-handed; not a shot had been fired.
With the Black Hawk whirring once again over the jungle towards Bogotá, the mood in the chopper was sombre. The operation had not been a success. But John Orejuela remained upbeat. For this cheerful, friendly, family man putting his life on the line to protect future Colombians from the worst that the terrorists, guerrillas and drug cartels could throw at them, the bottom line was that nobody died today. And that made it a good day.
‘Everybody’s good, everybody came back,’ he said, leaning forward and flashing that wide smile again. ‘No problem. What’s most important is that everybody comes back.
‘In this kind of operation, with the terrorists we have here, it’s very difficult: they have people everywhere with radios and cell phones. And they can call: ‘I hear a helicopter’ and so they leave quickly. So it’s difficult. But we’ve got to continue trying. It’s difficult, it’s not easy…but we have to keep trying. That’s the job.’
BAND OF BROTHERS: TOE TO TOE WITH JEFF ROACH AND THE VOWS UNIT
More than any other police force in America, the New Orleans PD have had to prove themselves. After the worst hurricane in this country’s history laid waste to the city, they stood alone as they struggled to keep order against a tidal wave of anarchy. They took on a flood of lawlessness…and they kept New Orleans on its feet. Just.
Their battle isn’t over. The aftermath of the hurricane has left this city awash with guns and violent crime – and whole districts where teenagers with no hope of a better life take the law into their own hands.
The NOPD operate above and beyond the call of duty: and right there at the sharp end are the Special Ops unit: the Violent Offenders Warrant Squad -VOWS for short. We met some real tight outfits around the world – but none of them compared to these boys. They had faced the worst the world could throw at them – and they’d come out fighting. They were still fighting. And I was going to fight right alongside them.
New Orleans has a nickname: the Big Easy. But there was nothing easy about the job we were about to do.
THE BOXING RING was in a corner of the warehouse behind police HQ. We’d noticed it before, the last time we were here, on the way to the cars…but I really hadn’t planned on seeing it up this close. The canvas and ropes, the talcum powder and sawdust, the padded corners…and that smell that only boxing rings have. Sweat and disinfectant.
From outside it seemed big: I knew that once I was in there it was going to feel a whole lot smaller.
As I stretched and loosened up, the place began to fill with New Orleans’s finest. They sauntered in, joking, laughing, looking forward to seeing the movie star, the former professional sportsman, the English guy, humiliated by one of their own. These were the NOPD’s Violent Offenders Warrant Squad and they were all tough men, used to taking it as well as dishing it out. And I was about to go head to head with their champ. In the ring. For two rounds. For real.
I’d already been out on a couple of raids with these boys and I thought I was building up a pretty good rapport with them…but it seemed that if I wanted to ride with them on the action-packed evening shift I’d have to prove myself first. I’d heard about gang initiations, ritual beatings that new members had to endure before being accepted into the brotherhood…but I never thought I’d have to go through the same thing myself. Not with the cops.
But that’s how these guys are. They’re a tight, solid unit, a proper band of brothers. They won’t let just anybody waltz in with a camera crew and roll with them…you’ve got to gain their respect first.
My reputation precedes me as a bit of a hard man – they’d seen the movies, some of them even knew about my record on the football pitch – and so they’d come up with this little initiation test for me. They wanted to see if I was all mouth and no fists…and so they asked me to face one of their own guys in the ring.
I knew they thought I’d refuse. So of course I said yes.
To these guys I’m Hollywood – but what they didn’t know was that before coming out here I’d just spent six weeks in a gym training for my last movie. It may have been a few years since I’d earned a living as an athlete, but I haven’t exactly let myself go. And a couple of years ago I did a film called Strength and Honour with Michael Madsen, in which we both played bare-knuckle fighters. I know a bit more about throwing a punch than most movie stars.
One of the guys taped up my hands and got a pair of gloves for me. I rolled my head, flexed my shoulders, jogged on the spot. I felt pretty good. I was ready to fight.
And then Jeff Roach, the unit’s champion fighter, stepped through the door.
Oh shit.
He was big. Big? He was massive. He practically blocked out the light.
He strode over, stuck out a hand and introduced himself. He had about 15 years on me, at least three or four stones and a good couple of inches in height too.
We’d met Jeff before: he’s the team’s entry man, their top guy when it comes to smashing into properties. As one of the others had told us: ‘When we find a door Jeff can’t break through, that’s the door I’m getting for my house.’
I asked the boys for