Guerilla Warfare (2006) Read online

  "I figured you would need 'ern," Alfredo said. "The concealment on this savannah is as scarce as tenderness in a sergeant major's heart:'

  Brannigan laughed. "I've been wondering about you, Alfredo. I don't want to stick my nose where it doesn't belong, but you've had military service, haven't you?"

  "I'm ex--Army Special Forces," Alfredo said, relenting. "Actually I was one of those mean sergeant majors before I retired."

  "My confidence in you has blossomed, ex--Sergeant Major," Brannigan said.

  "I have faith in you guys too," Alfredo said, moving toward the chopper. "Well! If you need anything else, let me know. You call. I haul. That's all." He waved as he got aboard the aircraft. The rotors kicked up, then the helicopter lifted skyward, turning back in the direction it came from.

  Brannigan gestured to the section commanders. "Let's break this stuff out and distribute it. Put the leftovers in the boats. We'll cache it later."

  Each man's load was increased by three days of MREs and four thirty-round magazines of 5.56-millimeter ammo. The SAW gunners' burdens were enlarged by a dozen magazines each, but some of these were distributed among the riflemen for portage purposes. Within ten minutes the job was done. Brannigan sent the men out to check the local area while he had a confab with the section and team leaders.

  The senior members of the detachment settled down, lit cigarettes, chewed gum or bit into energy bars, while Brannigan strode to their front with his hands in his pockets, looking like a man about to take a peaceful walk through his neighborhood back home. He gazed at his men for a moment, then announced. "I'm ready to start a war."

  "Aw, hell!" Connie Concord said, grinning. "I was fixing to put in for a thirty-day leave."

  Chief Matt Gunnarson picked up a rock and lobbed it at him. "You'll get a leave all right, but it'll be restricted to the OA. Have fun. Don't forget your old buddies if you find any good-looking women:'

  "Okay, guys," Brannigan said. "The Second Assault Section is going to run a combo reconnaissance and combat patrol due north from here. Redhawk and Murchison will act as scouts. I want the area scoped out, but if an opportunity presents itself to make contact with the enemy, do so." He looked at Senior Chief Dawkins, the section commander. "But only if you have a distinct advantage in the situation. I'm talking about a win-win scenario, understood? This is not the time to take chances."

  "Aye, sir," Dawkins said. "Understood. What time do we depart?"

  "I was kind of hoping you were already gone," Brannigan said with a wink.

  The senior chief got to his feet, tapping Milly Mills and Gutsy Olson. "You heard the Skipper." He gestured to Red-hawk and Chad. "C' mon! Let's went!"

  .

  1315 HOURS LOCAL

  GARTH Redhawk and Chad Murchison had set up an OP a hundred meters ahead of the section. The newly acquired camouflage capes allowed them to blend in perfectly with the surroundings. They used their binoculars to maintain a sharp lookout over the grassy plain that spread out all around them. They and the section were feeling the effects of the heavy, wet heat after long hours of hiking through the grass, and Dawkins had wisely called a break in their movement.

  "Psst!" Chad said. "Take look out at two o'clock." Redhawk swung his gaze in that direction. "Patrol. Four-man. I can't see any more."

  "Neither can I," Chad said. He observed them for a few additional moments. "Look! They're displaying that Falangist insignia on their sleeves. We definitely have the enemy in sight."

  Redhawk pulled out the AN/PRC-126 radio handset. "Brigand Two, this is scout. We've got a four-man enemy patrol about a hundred and fifty meters ahead, moving west to east. Over."

  "Are they alone or part of a larger group?" replied Dawkins. "Over?'

  "They're definitely alone," Redhawk reported. "Over."

  "We need an EPW," Dawkins said. "It'll be up to you guys. I can't get a fire team out there quick enough. What do you think about going after them? Can do? Over."

  "Can do," Redhawk replied. "We're on our way. Out." He put away the handset, looking at Chad. "The senior chief wants an EPW."

  "In my opinion, that is not an insurmountable undertaking," Chad said. "They're moving on a direct azimuth of two hundred and seventy degrees. If we stay low, we can hurry in a half-circuitous route and get ahead of them."

  "They call that an end around in Oklahoma football," Redhawk said. "Let's do it!"

  The scouts moved slightly south, then turned straight west, keeping as low on the horizon as possible. After ten minutes, they moved toward the target patrol, noting that the group continued in the same direction.

  "Y' know," Redhawk remarked, "I think that patrol leader was told to follow a westward course. And that's exactly what he's doing. Two hundred and seventy degrees by the compass and straight as an arrow."

  Chad grinned. "He isn't allowing for declension. Thus, it would appear that our antagonist is a young officer. Possibly the equivalent of an ensign."

  For the next half hour the two SEALs dogged the enemy patrol, gradually moving ahead of them as the trek continued due west. When they had gone twenty meters ahead of the Falangists, the scouts turned inward until they reached a point where the bad guys would be well within rifle range when they moved across their front. Redhawk and Chad went to the ground, their camouflage capes over them with CAR-15s ready.

  "There they are!" Chad exclaimed.

  "It looks like the second guy is the one in charge," Red-hawk said. As the senior ranking man of the pair, he would literally call the shots. "I'll take the point man while you hit the rear guy. Then we'll both go for the man right behind the leader. On my command?'

  He waited as the four Falangists pressed onward. They moved steadily, each one watching his field of fire, but unable to spot the hidden SEALs waiting in ambush.

  Redhawk's voice was matter-of-fact when he spoke. "Fire."

  The first round hit the lead man, who staggered sideways under the impact of the bullet before crumpling to the ground. At the same instant the last guy spun and dropped to the grass. A quick salvo got the third Falangist, and he buckled when two slugs jolted him. The patrol leader was on the ground by then, firing blindly in the direction of the incoming shots.

  "Oiga!" Chad called out loudly in Spanish. "Nosotros le mandamos a entregar!"

  "What'd you say?" Redhawk asked.

  "I told him that we order him to surrender," Chad said. "Well, tell him there's a hundred of us, and he's alone," Redhawk said. "Tell him to surrender or die."

  Chad yelled, "Estamos cien y usted esta solo. Entrege o muere!"

  The Falangist stayed down without replying. Redhawk and Chad cut loose with some fire bursts that were low to the ground, obviously cracking the air just over the man's head.

  "Esta es su ultima oportunidad para entregar!" Chad hollered. He spoke out of the side of his mouth to his companion. "I just told him this is his last chance to surrender."

  "Tell the son of a bitch to stand up. Now!"

  "Levantarse! Ahora!"

  A moment later a figure emerged into sight from the grass. He raised his hands and waited. The two SEALs cautiously got to their feet and approached him. The Falangist appeared to be in his early twenties; he was slim and good-looking, with an aristocratic air about him.

  "Keep an eye on him," Redhawk said. "I'll check out the casualties to make sure they're dead:' He went from man to man, rolling them over before going through their pockets to search for identification or documents. He found nothing and went back to join Chad and their prisoner. "Tell him not to try any funny stuff."

  "I speak English," the Falangist said. He was trying to put on a show of bravado, but the violent, unexpected deaths of his companions had obviously shaken him. "Who are you?"

  "Hey!" Redhawk snapped. "We're the capturers and you're the capturee, understand? We ask the questions." He grabbed the man by the sleeve and pushed him toward the south. "Any smart-ass shit on your part, and you're as dead as your buddies. Got it? Let's go!"

&n
bsp; .

  SEAL BIVOUAC

  RIO ANCHO

  1715 HOURS LOCAL

  THE EPW sat on the ground with his hands held behind his back in a plastic retainer. All the SEALs had been able to learn from him was that his name was Enrico Melendez and that his rank was subalterno. He refused to give his nationality, but Chad Murchison quickly cleared that up for Lieutenant Bill Brannigan.

  "He's a Bolivian, sir."

  "How can you tell, Murchison?"

  "Those cloth wings sewn above his pocket are Bolivian:' Chad said. "I collect parachutist badges for a hobby and have an extensive assortment. He is definitely a Bolivian paratrooper."

  "Brannigan looked down at the prisoner. "All right, so you're a Bolivian. What is your position in this Falangist Revolution?"

  "Under the rules of the Geneva Convention I am not required to answer any questions other than name, rank and service number," Melendez said defiantly.

  "Don't give me that shit, kid:' Brannigan said. "I think maybe you're a bandit. A goddamn felon. I'll just shoot you as a criminal."

  "Bah!" Melendez said. "And you are American mercenaries! You will be the ones who are put against a wall and shot."

  Frank Gomez came up on the bank from the boat where he kept the Shadowfire radio. "I transmitted the information on the EPW, sir. Alfredo is coming out personal to have a look at the guy."

  "Well," Brannigan said, "then he can sort this shit out with his own interrogation methods?'

  Melendez winced and took a deep breath of resignation.

  .

  1830 HOURS LOCAL

  SEAL security was particularly tight when the Petroleo Colmo chopper came in for a landing. Brannigan was worried about the bright red aircraft attracting unwanted attention if a bunch of pissed-off Falangists were out looking for whoever had shot up their patrol and captured its leader.

  Alfredo stepped out of the passenger door and shook hands with Brannigan. He nodded to Frank Gomez, Chad Murchison and Garth Redhawk, who were the only SEALs in the immediate vicinity. He and the Skipper walked to where Melendez still sat with his hands behind his back.

  Alfredo studied the young EPW for a few moments before speaking. "Your name is Enrico Melendez, eh?"

  "I have already answered all the questions I intend to," Melendez said. "And I demand to have my hands released from these bonds."

  "Your name is Enrico Melendez, and you are a teniente in the Bolivian Army."

  "I demand my rights under the Geneva convention."

  "You are listed as a deserter by the Bolivian Army and are wanted by the law," Alfredo said. "Your father's name is Bolivar Melendez, and he is the president of the Banco Mercado in La Paz. He lives with your mother Beatriz and your younger sister Mercedes at 12 Avenida de la Libertad in the exclusive suburb of Lujado."

  Melendez's face paled.

  "Do you wish for us to turn you over to the Bolivian federal authorities?" Alfredo asked. "Even your wealthy father and his political friends in the Chamber of Senators would be unable to save you. This situation with the Falangistas is serious enough that you will be shot as an example to other young turks in the Bolivian military." He paused long enough to light a cigarillo. After exhaling the smoke of the first drag, he said, "I am in a position to help you get out of this mess and back home. But you will have to cooperate with me."

  The young prisoner moaned softly. "Dios me ayudaGod help me!"

  .

  2300 HOURS LOCAL

  ALFREDO had brought in a couple of cases of French beer along with an assortment of sandwiches from the Petroleo Colmo mess kitchen. It was a cold camp for security reasons, and though the weather wasn't cool by any stretch of the imagination, it would have been nice if they could have had some smoky fires to keep the mosquitoes away. But at least they had their insect repellent.

  Bill Brannigan and Alfredo sat on the riverbank eating ham-and-turkey sandwiches while knocking back cans of the imported beer. They were disappointed in the results of the interrogation of the young Subalterno Melendez. The young man couldn't tell them much except that both banderas in the OA had been brought together to concentrate their efforts against the invaders. The addition of the mortars to the machine guns as infantry support weapons was not good news, nor was the intelligence about additional troops scheduled to arrive, The stolen Argentine helicopter in the enemy's possession was also ominous. This all meant that as the Falangists grew stronger and more fluid, their combat effectiveness could reach alarming proportions.

  Alfredo finished off his Kronenbourg beer. Under normal conditions out in a desolate wilderness he would have tossed the small bottle into the river. But security dictated that all the empty bottles and wrappers from the refreshments be taken back to the oil company for disposal. He belched contentedly, then took another bite of his sandwich. "The main thing we've learned from sweating out that EPW was that it's going to be a hell of a lot harder to defeat this Falangist rebellion than originally thought."

  "I need more men," Brannigan flatly stated.

  "We considered that from the get-go," Alfredo said. "Washington says that's a no-no. And the UN can't help unless Bolivia asks for aid. If the three countries involved were willing to do that, you guys wouldn't be here in the first place."

  "Shit! This is a no-win situation."

  "You've got permission to cut and run anytime you want to," Alfredo said. "Nobody is going to hold it against you." He reached for another beer. "We can have you out of here within twelve hours. What do you say?"

  Brannigan gave the ex--Special Forces NCO the coldest stare he'd ever been given in his life.

  "I thought not," Alfredo said, belching again.

  Chapter 7

  HEADQUARTERS, GRUPO DE BATALLA CAMPAMENTO ASTRAY

  10 DECEMBER

  1020 HOURS LOCAL

  IGNACIO Perez sat on the chair in his small room in the far corner of the headquarters building, smoking nervously. The ashtray on the desk next to him was filled with cigarette butts. Beside it was a half-full bottle of cognac that had been opened less than an hour before. The little bald man was frightened out of his wits but not to the extent of trembling with fear or heavy, nervous sweating. His trepidation was the smothering type that weighed on his consciousness with a relentless pressure without bringing on noticeable physical reactions other than smoking and drinking too much.

  One of the patrols sent out a couple of days before had gone missing, then was located earlier that morning. A reconnaissance party had radioed in that three men had been discovered dead, and a fourth was missing in action. This was the young subalterno named Enrico Melend had not be found anywhere in the vicinity. It was assumed he had been captured.

  As far as Ignacio was concerned, this was a sign of things to come.

  He was in an environment that was completely alien to his personality and temperament. The former accountant was the farthest thing from a soldier. He was not aggressive, brave nor physically robust. The little man had ended up in this frightening predicament after a conviction for embezzling money from the machine parts manufacturing firm where he was employed. And this trouble came about because of his wife Isabella.

  She was a lot younger than he, and Ignacio had met her when she was a salesclerk in a small grocery he frequented in his Seville neighborhood. Isabella was pretty in a sort of cheap, second-rate way. Her hair was always arranged in a flamboyant manner, the blouses she chose emphasized the cleavage of her large breasts, and she wore miniskirts that showed off her well-shaped legs. She displayed a sort of tacky sensuality that drove Ignacio mad with lust and love.

  She had a lot of boyfriends who were the types that worked irregularly, if at all, and were always in some sort of trouble with the police or creditors. When she began being friendly toward him, Ignacio knew it was because he had gainful employment with a regular paycheck. He certainly wasn't a handsome man. In fact, there was very little she found attractive in his appearance. It was ludicrous to think that a twenty-year-old gir
l found a bald, spindly yet potbellied middle-aged accountant good-looking. His inferiority complex made him tongue-tied in her presence, but eventually his romantic affections finally stifled his natural shyness. He had gasped with happiness when, after he finally got up the nerve to ask her out, she agreed to let him take her to a restaurant and the cinema one Saturday evening. After he escorted her home, she even agreed to go out with him again.

  Thus began a courtship she dominated. He knew that Isabella was seeing other men from time to time, but he loved her so much he forgave her indiscretions. He fooled himself into thinking that if she became his wife and saw his pure, loving devotion, she would lose interest in her paramours. He was frightened out of his wits when he proposed, expecting to be laughed at and sent away. But she accepted.