Hunting Che

by Mitch Weiss

  Marcos was a high-ranking Cuban named Antonio Sanchez Diaz, commander of the First Revolutionary Regiment in Havana and a member of the Central Committee of the Cuban Communist Party. Rodríguez already knew about Che’s fight with Marcos—Braulio had written about it. At first, Rodríguez didn’t understand the entry, but Paco was filling in the details for him.

  Paco said Marcos protested, saying he was “as much comandante” as Che. The men looked like they were going to fight, but Marcos finally backed down.

  Paco was later assigned to the rear guard, a group led by Joaquin, a Cuba veteran named Comandante Juan Vitalio Acuna Nunez. He took away Paco’s gun, but he still had to carry the ammunition.

  That night Che gathered the guerrillas together for an hour-long speech.

  Che told them the Cubans had volunteered to come to Bolivia because it was their duty to assist Latin America in fighting North American imperialism. He said it was going to be a long fight—a war that would last a decade. The Cubans would stay in Bolivia “until you can walk by yourselves.” Then they would spread revolution to other nations.

  Rodríguez knew the speech. It was the typical Communist bullshit parroted by guerrilla leaders all over Latin America. But then came the key information: Because Vicente and Pastor had deserted, Che demoted Marcos from comandante to soldier. He placed him in the rear guard, under Joaquin’s command.

  He promoted Miguel, a Sierra Maestra veteran named Captain Manuel Hernandez, to head the vanguard.

  It was obvious to Rodríguez that Che didn’t trust the Bolivians. When several other Bolivian guerrillas deserted as well, Che put Cubans and Tania in charge of the operation. On their home ground, Bolivians were more concerned with providing for their families than his Communist revolution.

  One of the biggest coups in Rodríguez’s investigation was Paco’s explanation of guerrilla logistics. Paco explained that Che operated in three groups—vanguard, center, and rear guard. Each unit was about a half mile apart from the rest. The vanguard had six to eight people. In the center was Che and the main force. The rest were in the rear. That way, if there was an ambush, the vanguard or the rear guard would be hit first. Both units would protect the center.

  By the end of his time with Paco, Rodríguez had a twenty-page debriefing report for the Bolivians detailing everything he had learned, from how the guerrillas operated to the friction points between Che and his commanders.

  All they needed now was a lead.

  CHAPTER 18

  “Go get him.”

  Training was winding down. The Rangers were ready. Shelton had been watching for weeks, looking for little things. Were the units in sync during maneuvers? Were the snipers hitting the targets? Did the field artillery units coordinate among themselves?

  To Shelton, the answer was yes.

  The Bolivian high command hadn’t decided where or when the Rangers would be deployed. That didn’t matter. Shelton knew they were ready. That’s all anyone could ask for.

  Their fourth month of training had begun with two weeks of field exercise in the wilderness outside Santa Cruz. The battalion had put its training to work, maneuvering the Rangers through terrain similar to what they’d find in the operations area. They’d made it as hard and realistic as possible so the soldiers could stay alive while they tracked down Che.

  It was downright elaborate in places. At one point, the Special Forces team set up a mock village to teach the soldiers how to properly clear buildings—a bit like a fun house, with blank guns. Groups of three or four Rangers moved inside and cleared each room of lurking “guerrillas” before heading to the next one. Some of the soldiers dressed up like women and popped out of rooms without warning. The message was: Shoot the soldiers you find, but not women. Only men, and only if they have weapons.

  There was unfinished business in La Esperanza. Most of the framing was done at the school project, but wrangling continued over funding. Shelton badgered the U.S. embassy—and Henderson—until the roof and the windows were paid for. That was a battle won, but the war continued: He had to push his bosses to get anything done. At one point in the program, Shelton and his deputy, Captain Fricke, were summoned to Panama to explain to the SOUTHCOM brass why they had requested so many costly supplies. Didn’t Shelton know there were lots of other projects going on, in other countries?

  The major was quiet for a moment. He looked General Porter in the eye.

  “You wouldn’t want to lose that battalion, now, would you, General?” Shelton asked. Porter backed down. Supplies continued to flow freely to La Esperanza. Sure, Shelton was a hotshot, but the general respected his candor, and his utter dedication to his mission. Shelton had promised himself at the beginning that he would do things the right way in Bolivia—his way. He kept his promises.

  He had a few more things on his to-do list. After the Rangers were deployed, his team was slated to train nine Bolivian infantry companies. That assignment would be a breeze compared to Ranger training. Shelton was confident his team would be home by Christmas.

  For Shelton, the last few weeks had been a whirlwind of visiting dignitaries. General Porter had toured La Esperanza. He presented gold wristwatches to the outstanding Bolivian officers and silver ones to the best Rangers from each company. The Bolivians had big plans for the graduation ceremony. Vice President Adolfo Siles would speak, along with Colonel Joaquin Zenteno Anaya, the Eighth Division commander.

  Shelton felt that the tide was turning in favor of the Bolivians. While he hadn’t seen Rodríguez and Villoldo for weeks, he’d heard that key guerrillas had been killed or captured. Rodríguez and Villoldo were probably deep into interrogations now.

  Che’s role was no longer a mystery. The revolutionary was not only involved, but leading the guerrillas. Che must have an escape plan. If things got really dangerous, surely he had a way out? Why would he risk everything in a Bolivian jungle?

  * * *

  The dead revolutionaries rode into town facedown, lashed to the backs of mules. Rodríguez thought he’d never been so happy to see a corpse before—he’d rushed through the morning to get to tiny Pucara, driving up from Vallegrande in a jeep with Villoldo and Saucedo, shouting into field phones to the sergeant at the ambush scene: “Get the bodies to Pucara, we’ll meet you there.”

  If Rodríguez could identify the dead men, they’d have a clear picture of Che’s whereabouts, at least for the next few days. It was worth a shot.

  But jeeps move faster than mules. Once they arrived, the wait began. He couldn’t take any more coffee, so Rodríguez wandered the streets.

  The village was cut into a mountainside, with lovely views over finger-like valleys pointing down to the Rio Grande. The steep hills were covered in thorny thickets, dense vegetation, and boulders. It was impossible terrain, Rodríguez thought. No wonder their “delivery” was taking so long.

  At around four o’clock Second Lieutenant Eduardo Galindo and his platoon arrived with the bodies. The three intelligence men introduced themselves briefly, then got to work.

  Soldiers undid the knots and laid the stiffening bodies in the dirt street. Rodríguez took out an ink pad, grasped the dead guerrillas by their wrists, and rolled their fingerprints onto a pad of paper. While Rodríguez shot photos of documents taken from the guerrilla’s backpacks, Villoldo and Saucedo debriefed Galindo on the ambush.

  The guerrillas had been walking along a dirt road in broad daylight, no cover. Galindo’s men spotted them from the heights. He ordered them to set an ambush, but Galindo quickly realized that he was facing a conundrum. The guerrillas walked with a good distance between one another, so it was hard to hit the whole group. There wasn’t much cover. The guerrillas would spot his men as they drew nearer. Galindo took his chance.

  “After we opened fire, the guerrillas retreated,” Galindo said. “I ordered my troops to advance.” Some of the guerrillas fell. The rest turned and ran. We went all the
way down to La Higuera, but the rest escaped into the canyons near the town.”

  The Bolivians recovered the bodies and brought them back to Pucara.

  The trio thanked Galindo, patted the mules, and headed back to Vallegrande, where Rodríguez compared the prints to his files.

  The dead guerrillas were Miguel, a Cuban, and two Bolivians—Coco and Julio.

  Rodríguez flipped through several sheets of notes and scribbled his findings on a tablet.

  In March, Che had promoted Miguel to commander of the vanguard. If Miguel’s unit was in the area, Che was nearby. Rodríguez recalled the view from Pucara, the steep, thorny valleys cutting into the mountainside. He prayed Che was still stuck down there. Rodríguez was not a military strategist, but he knew what an opportunity looked like.

  He gathered his notebooks and rushed to Eighth Division headquarters, ready to make his pitch to Zenteno. But Zenteno was busy. Rodríguez cooled his heels in the hallway. It was a classic case of “hurry up and wait,” the second one of the day.

  After what felt like hours, Zenteno invited Rodríguez into his office.

  “Sir,” Rodríguez said. “It’s time to move the Rangers from La Esperanza to Vallegrande. Che is in the area.”

  Zenteno took a deep breath. President Barrientos had made several visits to town to check on operations, and Zenteno knew that if his men caught Che, the glory would be all his.

  “How do you know that?” he asked Rodriguez.

  “The bodies from the ambush this morning. One was Miguel. Miguel was in Che’s vanguard,” Rodríguez said. “That was Che’s vanguard coming up the road.”

  There was a real sense of urgency: They needed the Rangers. Now.

  “But Félix, they have not finished their Ranger training,” Zenteno said. “They have another two weeks to go. I will move them as soon as they complete their cycle.”

  Rodríguez clenched his teeth and shook his head.

  “In two weeks we have no idea where Che will be,” Rodríguez said. “If we don’t move the troops now, all the training in the world won’t help them. Everything I’ve tried to do since I got here is coming to a head right now.”

  Using Paco’s information, Rodríguez could predict where Che Guevara would next move his main guerrilla force. That caught Zenteno’s attention.

  “We know where he is now,” Rodríguez said. “And the last two weeks of Ranger training is for getting diplomas and all that shit. They’re ready now.”

  Then he said the words that Zenteno wanted to hear:

  “I am certain we can deal the Communists a mortal blow. But only if you, sir, act decisively. Order the Second Ranger Battalion into combat now.”

  * * *

  Noise, more noise, roused Valderomas from his bed. He stood by his window and saw the soldiers gathering, lining themselves up in front of the sugar mill. But unlike other mornings, they wore huge backpacks and carried duffel bags.

  They were on their way out.

  Valderomas heard from his neighbors that the Rangers were leaving for their first secret mission. Probably looking for the guerrillas, Valderomas thought. The Americans would stay behind, and other Bolivian soldiers would be arriving soon—but not so many. Maybe things would calm down now.

  The night before, Valderomas had watched the Bolivian soldiers say good-bye to people in town. He spotted that tall American soldier with the sunglasses, holding hands with the Roca girl. The soldier had asked to marry her, everyone said. Valderomas doubted that would happen, but if it did, the girl would leave. He couldn’t imagine an American settling in La Esperanza. La Esperanza was a poor village. It would always be a poor village.

  Valderomas had made a little extra money selling the soldiers vegetables. Good things had happened for the village, too. The school project would be finished soon, maybe in time for the president to lift the “winter holiday” and send the children back to class.

  Valderomas watched the Rangers climb onto the trucks and head out of town. As he stared at the convoy receding in the distance, he felt a sense of sadness. Those were good men, he thought. How many of them would die out there?

  * * *

  They stood in formation under a crisp blue sky, tall and proud. The men of the Second Ranger Battalion wore olive-green uniforms and green berets. Their ceremony was held at Eighth Division headquarters in Santa Cruz and broadcast live on Bolivian National Radio. Vice President Siles and other Bolivian officials gave impassioned speeches. These were the Bolivian elite, they declared, their finest soldiers, off now to cleanse the land of the Communist scourge.

  The vice president presented each man with a gold pin in the shape of condor wings, the word “Ranger” engraved below. The men beamed. Watching the ceremony unfold, Shelton couldn’t help thinking about all they had accomplished in just a few months. Enjoy yourselves today, men, he thought.

  Training is over. Reality starts tomorrow.

  And only then would Shelton be able to gauge his success, if the men had truly grasped the program. He just wished he could be there with them in the field, to see them take the first steps—this was a lot like raising a child, he thought. There was nothing Shelton could do now except wait and see.

  When the ceremony wound up, a smartly dressed officer broke ranks, stepped up to Shelton, and shook his hand—Prado. He looked every inch an officer, with stars on the collar of his neatly pressed tan uniform. He wore dark sunglasses and his green beret angled over his eye, just so. They’d put him in charge of Company B.

  He and Shelton walked across the parade ground to the gates of the headquarters.

  “It was an inspiring ceremony,” Prado said.

  “They did it up right,” Shelton agreed. “Look at the men, and think of how far they have come. Remember the first day they showed up?”

  Prado smiled. “We didn’t look like soldiers, did we?”

  “Prado, you always looked like a soldier. They didn’t. But I’ll give them this: They always tried their best. They always worked hard. We had to cover a lot of things over a short period. But they got it.”

  There was a moment of silence. Prado looked up to Shelton. The major treated even the lowest-ranking men with respect. He listened when others talked. He never seemed to raise his voice—Shelton was calm and collected. If he could command like Shelton, Prado thought, he’d have the respect of the men in his company.

  “I’m leaving today,” Prado said. “I’m headed to the operations area. I wanted to say good-bye.”

  Shelton stopped and turned. “Gary, I’m sure you’re going to do well. Any army would be glad to have you.”

  He was headed back to La Esperanza to train infantry, Shelton said, but he would miss the Rangers. This had been the most important mission of his army career. His team had grown to care for the Bolivian soldiers. When the Americans finally returned home in a few months, they would always remember their time in La Esperanza.

  “You take care of your family, Gary,” Shelton said. “Be safe. And go get him.”

  PART THREE

  RED ZONE

  © 2013 Travis Rightmeyer

  CHAPTER 19

  “We will destroy these men.”

  The last week of September, the Rangers packed themselves into open-topped transport trucks used to carry sugarcane, and traveled down eighty miles of rutted roads from Santa Cruz to Vallegrande. It was a market town of about six thousand people, with the usual narrow cobblestone streets, hole-in-the-wall shops, and outdoor markets where farmers sold their garden produce. It was a place where people worked hard all week and went to church on Sundays.

  The tenor in town had changed over the last few months as it became a way station for international journalists and Bolivian Army troops. The locals had grown used to seeing military trucks and jeeps parked on the streets. They’d heard that Che and his army were nearby, but having more soldiers in town only
added to the anxiety. No one trusted the government’s assurances and warnings. In the spring, Bolivian commanders had told them hundreds of fighters were in the canyons just outside the city. They’d spent the summer wondering when Vallegrande would be attacked. Now the soldiers said the guerrillas were on the run. Which one was it?

  Mario Salazar was just happy to get to Vallegrande in one piece. As the convoy rolled down the cobblestones into town, Salazar waved at the people lining the streets. He could sense from the smiles and waves that some were happy to see the Rangers. Salazar loved the attention. He and the men felt like they were part of something special.

  The trip down had been a singsong of boasting, a review on what they’d do when the time came to kill the guerrillas. Methods were thrown up and shot down in turn: String them up? Shoot them? Grenades, machine guns, mortars—each weapon was considered in turn. Some of them may have been scared inside, but today, with C Company, they were macho men. Salazar stared at the mountains in the distance—he couldn’t wait to get into a firefight. The Rangers were ready for action.

  Captain Prado, commander of B Company, was feeling similar emotions. He had been preparing for this moment his entire life. He’d grown up with his father’s stories of the Chaco War and knew about the brutal battles, attacks, and casualties. Even in that losing war there were victories. This war, today, was Gary Prado’s war. He was not going to lose.

  Training was over. Prado and his men were prepared, both mentally and physically.

  The guerrillas were trapped along the Rio Grande, just outside Vallegrande.

  Once everyone arrived, Prado and the other company officers were summoned to a briefing with Colonel Zenteno. The mood was grim. Zenteno wasted no time. They all knew there had been skirmishes in the area and that the guerrillas had occupied the village of Alto Seco. The guerrillas had been there for less than twenty-four hours, but they had terrorized the town.