by Jack Terral
Guerilla Warfare (2006)
( Seals - 2 )
Jack Terral
Into The Fire
The incoming hurricane of flying steel pounding into the SEAL positions grew with each passing moment. Bullets whined and cracked through the air around the Americans, some clipping the taller blades of grass. It was obvious to everyone that the enemy had night vision equipment and was well prepared to deal with sneak attacks; especially those that happened during the hours of darkness. But like the SEALs, this evening's violence made it impossible for them to deliver accurate fire.
Brannigan knew the tiger was now tested; and he was tough, efficient and professional. Now was the time to break contact. The Skipper thought quickly, almost instinctively reaching the decision to withdraw fire teams from the ends first to leave the center of his battle line as strong as possible. He once more grabbed the radio handset. "Fire Team Delta, this is Brigand. Break contact and withdraw a hundred meters to the rear. For God's sake keep your heads down! The incoming fire is as thick as swarms of hornets . . ."
Seals
Guerrilla Warfare
Jack Terral
*
TABLE OF ORGANIZATION
BRANNIGAN'S BRIGANDS
COMMAND ELEMENT
Lieutenant William "Wild Bill" Brannigan
(Commanding Officer)
PO2C Mikael "Mike" Assad
(Rifleman/Scout)
PO2C Francisco "Frank" Gomez
(Rifleman/Commo Chief)
PO2C David "Dave" Leibowitz
(Rifleman/Scout)
PO3C James Bradley
(Rifleman/Hospital Corpsman)
FIRST ASSAULT SECTION
Lieutenant (J. G.) James Cruiser
(Section Commander)
PO2C Bruno Puglisi
(SAW Gunner)
ALPHA FIRE TEAM
CPO Matthew "Matt" Gunnarson
(Fire Team Leader)
PO2C Garth Redhawk
(Rifleman)
PO3C Chadwick "Chad" Murchison
(Rifleman)
BRAVO FIRE TEAM
PO Michael "Connie" Concord
(Fire Team Leader)
PO2C Lamar Taylor
(Rifleman)
PO3C Paulo Cinzento
(Rifleman)
SECOND ASSAULT SECTION
SCPO Buford Dawkins
(Section Commander)
PO2C Josef "Joe" Miskoski
(SAW Gunner)
CHARLIE FIRE TEAM
PO1C Michael "Milly" Mills
(Fire Team Leader)
PO2C Wesley "Wes" Ferguson
(Rifleman)
PO2C Reynauld "Pech" Pecheur
(Rifleman)
DELTA FIRE TEAM
PO1C Guttorm "Gutsy" Olson
(Fire Team Leader)
PO2C Andrei "Andy" Malachenko
(Rifleman)
PO3C Guy Devereaux
(Rifleman)
Falange: Spanish word for "phalanx," a military combat formation of ancient times in which foot soldiers formed a tight square with shields and spears overlapping. Also a fascist political party organized in Spain in the 1930s that was instrumental in overthrowing the Republicans in the Spanish Civil War. This was the only official party allowed in Spain under the regime of Generalissimo Francisco Franco, who ruled the nation from 1939 until his death in 1975.
*
RANKS OF THE FALANGIST ARMY-
EL EJERCITO FALANGISTA
Generalisimo
(Commander-in-Chief )
Mariscal
(Marshal)
General
(General)
Coronel
(Colonel)
Comandante
(Commandant)
Capitan
(Captain)
Subalterno
(Subaltern)
Suboficial
(Warrant Officer)
Sargento-Mayor
(Sergeant Major)
Sargento
(Sergeant)
Cabo
(Corporal)
*
Excerpt from Sun Tzu's The Art of War as paraphrased by Petty Officer 2nd Class Bruno Puglisi of Brannigan's Brigands:
When you're in enemy territory and they don't know you're there, just play it cool and stay laid back. Then, when the time is right, you hit the rat bastards with everything you got while they've still got their heads up their keisters.
PROLOGUE:
STATE DEPARTMENT WASHINGTON, D. C.
15 NOVEMBER
0945 HOURS LOCAL
ARTURO Sanchez of Bolivia, Patricio Ludendorff of Chile and Luis Bonicelli of Argentina were special envoys from their respective governments to the United States. They had been brought together through a most unusual agreement and sent north to the land of the yanquis on a mission of extreme sensitivity and confidentiality.
The three South American diplomats were given a covert but warm welcome to Washington upon their arrival and provided with quarters at a safe house in Georgetown. Now, after cooling their heels for forty hours, they sat in sullen silence at one end of a large conference table located in an out-of-the-way State Department meeting room. The trio, a trifle irritated, waited impatiently for their American contact to appear.
These gentlemen were specialists in the complicated environment of international diplomacy. They participated in clandestine segments of unique proceedings few insiders knew about. Their duties required them to perform their surreptitious tasks in the strictest secrecy, and that particular day's activities were no exception. The subject to be discussed could absolutely not be revealed to the outside world, particularly to the populations of the emissaries' home countries. Revelations of the conference would cause untold embarrassment to all concerned, not to mention instigating the bloodiest revolution in the history of Latin America.
In short, it would make a bad situation worse.
The door to the room opened, and the South Americans snapped their eyes over in that direction. Carl Joplin, PhD, an American undersecretary of state walked in with a friendly smile, taking a seat at the head of the table. The African-American superdiplomat displayed a warm smile. "Good morning, gentlemen. Or should I say, Buenos dias, caballeros?"
The three visitors smiled slightly in a subdued manner of greeting.
"I was most surprised to hear from all three of you at the same time," Joplin said. "It is hard to imagine what sort of crisis would have brought Argentina, Chile and Bolivia together in what appears to be a common cause."
"Then you realize that only the gravest of circumstances would have brought about this event that you find so electrifying," Ludendorff of Chile said.
"Frankly," Joplin said, "I must admit that at this moment I am more than just a little apprehensive. Your grim demeanors do nothing to allay my uneasiness." He leaned back in his chair. "I believe it is obvious that since I know nothing of your mission, I am unable to officially open this diplomatic session in which no agenda has been introduced." He smiled again. "Would one of you gentleman kindly do the honors?"
The Argentine Bonicelli spoke up in the realization that he and his two companions would have to start the ball rolling. "It begins with a fascist Spanish Army officer by the name of Jose Maria de Castillo y Plato."
"Ah!" Joplin exclaimed. "The Far Right enters the picture, hey? I am very familiar with el coronel Castillo and his service in the notorious Spanish Foreign Legion. His dossier also emphasizes a rather malevolent political background. Thus, it appears you are having problems with neo-Nazis in your particular necks of the woods. Is this the case?"
"Not neo-Nazis in the conventional interpretation of the term," Sanchez of Bolivia said. "In t
his case it -is Falangists, Dr. Joplin. Castillo is from an old, established and extremely wealthy industrial family. His kinsmen are dedicated followers of traditional Spanish right-wing philosophies that strongly purport the reestablishment of a dictatorship in that country. We believe this potential regime would be even more draconian than that of el generalisimo Francisco Franco."
"A moment please," Joplin said. "As I recall the Falange was the political party that ran Spain under Franco:'
"The same," Ludendorff said. "And since Castillo cannot realize his dream in Spain, he has chosen South America as the locale to establish a new fascist country. To be more precise, he wishes to do this in an area where Argentina, Bolivia and Paraguay come together. We are not in the least appreciative of this dubious honor."
"I am confused," Joplin said. "I see a representative from Chile here, but nobody from Paraguay."
"Paraguay is not involved," the Bolivian Sanchez said. "The war we had with them precludes any hope of cooperation between our two nations' armed forces:'
"You are speaking, of course, of the Gran Chaco War, Senor Sanchez," Joplin said. "But all that happened between 1928 and 1935. Don't tell me that there is still bitterness about a conflict that occurred over three-quarters of a century.
"I assure you such animosity is alive and well to this day," Sanchez said. "At any rate, Colonel Castillo believes Chile has more strategic importance, because of its availability to the Andes mountains and the Pacific Ocean to the west. Consequently, he is ignoring Paraguay."
"Argentina," Bonicelli interjected, "offers access to the Atlantic Ocean, and thus is included in Castillo's ambitions."
Joplin shrugged. "Please, gentlemen, this is all pretty far-fetched, is it not? The whole concept is preposterous."
Sanchez shook his head. "I beg to strongly disagree, sir! Castillo has taken dissident officers and noncommissioned officers of the armed forces of the three countries into his movement. They have looted entire garrisons to get the materiel and weaponry they need. They are now well-equipped, armed and have begun making raids against isolated military posts in the area. These Falangistas have hidden camps in the Gran Chaco. As you know, that is an isolated section of South America abounding with swamps and grasslands. There are no roads or rail transportation. Rivers offer the most efficient means of travel. Thus the populations living there are under the Falangists' command and control:'
"I would think," Joplin said, "that if you sent the armies of your nations against these rebels, you could easily crush them."
Ludendorff looked at his two companions, then turned a sad expression on Joplin. "The Latin American military has always been fond of political adventuring. Consequently, we do not know who to trust in our armed forces. We require outsiders to rid us of this problem."
"To be more precise:' Bonicelli said, "the situation requires fuerzas especiales--special forces--to defeat the Falangistas."
"Let's speak plainly, gentlemen:' Joplin said. "You are requesting American military assistance in battling and destroying these fascist revolutionaries, are you not?
"Precisely," Ludendorff said.
"Then we should get to the specifics and requirements of the situation," Joplin insisted. "Without a detailed analysis of our adversaries, I cannot forward your request to my government."
"As of the moment," Ludendorff said, "the Falangists are no more than a detachment or two."
"A detachment is an ambiguous military term," Joplin said. "It is impossible to determine the makeup of such an organization."
Sanchez sighed. "We do not know their exact numbers, Dr. Joplin. But they have the potential of growing stronger macho mcis fuerte!"
"I see," Joplin said, "In that case, I must insist that you pass on to me all the intelligence you have on these fascists. I cannot possibly bring this matter up with the American secretary of state with no more than sketchy details."
All three South Americans reached under the table for their briefcases crammed with data. Now they could get down to business.
Chapter 1
THE FOULED ANCHOR TAVERN CORONADO, CALIFORNIA
20 NOVEMBER
2130 HOURS LOCAL
SCPO Buford Dawkins turned off Orange Avenue and into the bar's parking lot. He whipped into a space, braked and cut the engine. His companion, CPO Matt Gunnarson, glanced over at him from the front passenger seat. "Looks like some Thanksgiving and Christmas plans are gonna go completely to hell, huh?"
"Yeah," Dawkins said. "There'll be at least a dozen leaves canceled."
"Well," Matt commented dryly, "it's like they say in the Russian Navy: toughski shitski."
"Tell me about it," Dawkins grumbled.
The two veteran sailors got out of the Accord to stride across the lot toward the entrance to the tavern. Dawkins led the way inside with Matt right on his heels. The Fouled Anchor was a SEAL hangout, and the noisy crowd inside was passing the evening in the riotous good spirits of being with their own kind. The deep camarader young men getting happily and carelessly drunk had developed through the sharing of ideals, commitment and experiences. These were the three traits that develop elan and discipline among professional fighting men, and outsiders were not be tolerated in their midst.
Senior Chief Dawkins and Chief Gunnarson nodded to a couple of acquaintances while glancing around the room. Moments later they spotted their quarry at the rear of the tavern deep into an evening of serious drinking. Several members of the SEAL platoon known as Brannigan's Brigands sat at a table happily knocking back pitchers of beers with the establishment's owner Salty Donovan, who was a retired SEAL. Salty's wife Dixie was behind the bar drawing some beer into a couple of pitchers when she noticed Dawkins and Gunnarson heading for the back of the tavern.
"Hey!" she called out. "You two hold up and grab these pitchers. They're for your buddies in the back."
"Sorry, Dixie," Dawkins said. "We ain't here to drink. We got important business to conduct."
"Are you collecting bets, or is it Navy doings?" Dixie asked. She was a heavyset woman, built solid like her robust Irish female ancestors.
"Navy," Gunnarson said.
"What the hell am I gonna do with these pitchers?" Dixie asked, exasperated.
"Give 'em to Salty," Buford suggested. "He'll knock 'em all back within five minutes."
"Oh yeah!" Dixie said. "That's just what that old bastard needs: more beer."
The two chief petty officers walked through the other tables of drinkers until reaching the place where the Brigands sat. They all looked up, surprised at the sudden appearance of the senior enlisted men of the platoon. But any happy drunken greetings were squelched by the serious expressions on Dawkins's and Matt's wind-burned faces. This arrival was obviously going to have serious consequences.
Bruno Puglisi, a petty officer second class, winced. "Hey, Chiefs," he greeted them. Then he hopefully added, "What's the good word?"
"Isolation," Dawkins said. "Now."
Salty Donovan, a holder of the Navy Cross won during his third tour in Vietnam, had been happily drunk, not only from the beer but from the enjoyment of being with some of his favorite people. This group had lost two men KIA on their last operation, and now it appeared they were about to go out on yet another. He set his mug down and leaned back in the chair, glancing at the young faces around him. The old vet wished he could go with them. Others in the room also noted what was going on at the rear table and realized something urgent was in the works.
Matt walked over to an old-fashioned pinball machine where PO2C Mike Assad was working flippers as he batted the steel ball under the glass cover. Mike's best pal PO2C Dave Leibowitz, sipping from a mug, silently cheered his buddy on. When he noticed Matt's presence, he nodded a greeting.
Matt nudged Mike, saying, "I hope you ain't winning." Mike frowned. "Why the hell not, Chief?"
"Because you ain't gonna be able to play any extra games. The platoon has been alerted. Let's go. Immediately if not sooner!"
The two
young SEALs looked around and saw Dawkins with Salty and the others. Dave grimaced. "Oh, shit!"
"Yeah," Matt remarked. "Oh, shit." He walked to a table where PO3C Chad Murchison was playing chess with a SEAL from another team. The chief announced, "Checkmate!"
Chad looked up. "Not yet."
"Then stalemate," Matt said. "Move out, Murchison. We've been alerted."
Chad frowned. "How incommodious!"
"Whatever," Matt commented. "Move!"
Brannigan's Brigands walked toward the door a group without making any comments. They nodded to Dixie on their way out the tavern, and she gave them a proud smile. Dawkins and Gunnarson followed them through the door into the cool night air.
An impromptu convoy formed as four POVs followed the senior chief's car out of the parking lot and into the street for the short ride down to the base.
.
NAVAL AMPHIBIOUS BASE ISOLATION AREA
21 NOVEMBER
0530 HOURS LOCAL
THE sun was on the eastern side of the Laguna Mountains, hidden down near the desert floor, and none of its illumination showed yet on the distant horizon. It would be some time before it rose high enough to light the sundown side of the mountain range. Over near the Isolation Area entrance, a Navy Humvee appeared out of the darkness and came to a stop. Lieutenant Wild Bill Brannigan and his 21C Lieutenant (J. G.) Jim Cruiser quickly exited the vehicle to walk into the illumination of the light at the gate. The Marine guard on duty knew them both by sight, but he checked their I. D.'s per regulations before he allowed them to enter the compound.
They quickly crossed the short distance to the entrance of the squat building to their direct front. When the two officers entered, they found Brannigan's Brigands just beginning to stir to greet the new duty day. A few were in the head going through their morning toilette while others were sluggishly dressing. They still hadn't gotten the word on why they had been so unceremoniously pulled out of the Fouled Anchor the night before.
The appearance of their two officers snapped them out of the early morning doldrums. Senior Chief Buford Dawkins walked in from the head. He immediately bellowe to attention. Now the men moved smartly, snapping into the traditional position.
"Good morning, sir!" Dawkins said with a salute as he reported.
