by Jack Terral
Toledo put the drink to his lips and drained the snifter.
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LOS BLANCOS, ARGENTINA 28 NOVEMBER1500 HOURS LOCAL
BRANNIGAN'S Brigands were all together now. They celebrated Thanksgiving in a corner of a rat-infested warehouse with MREs and a local brand of beer called Cristal. They put on a good show, but in truth the affair fell short. Several members of the detachment would have been back in hometowns with family if it hadn't been for this current operation, and the married men felt especially lonely; even the bachelors would have at least been in a base chow hall enjoying a traditional menu in a holiday atmosphere. But here they were, way down in South America, off by themselves, hiding like escaped convicts in dank surroundings.
Frank Gomez sorely missed his wife and little boy. "Christmas is really going to suck this year."
"Hanukkah ain't exactly gonna be a wingding jubilee," Dave Leibowitz observed.
The sound of the door opening caught their attention, and everyone's eyes turned in that direction, hoping to see something interesting or perhaps encouraging. But it was only Alfredo, coming in.
"Happy Thanksgiving!" he said cheerfully. He noted the lack of response and shrugged. "Anyhow, I have the latest intelligence from the Gran Chaco to pass on to you:'
The SEALs stopped eating, giving him their full attention.
"Okay," Alfredo continued, "we know now that a group of the Falangist troops are out there. We don't know how many of them there are, or where they're located, or what their intentions are, or how they're equipped."
Joe Miskoski groaned loudly. "You call that intelligence?"
"It's a big, empty country out there," Alfredo said defensively. "Just keep in mind the enemy knows less about you. As far as can be determined, they have absolutely no idea of your existence, much less that you're on your way."
"All right!" Brannigan said loudly. "Let's not start bitching! The fact we're able to make a clandestine infiltration gives us one hell of an advantage. I'm going to do a map reconnaissance this evening and pick out an easily defended area for a base camp. From that point on, we'll start going up and down rivers, creeks, streams, mud puddles and shit holes until we find the sons of bitches. Once we have the intelligence we need, we'll take the appropriate action." He looked around. "Are you listening, Odd Couple?"
"Yes, sir," came Mike Assad's voice from the back of the crowd.
"You and Leibowitz had better rest up while you can," Brannigan said to the pair of detachment scouts. "You two are gonna be running your asses off."
"Right," Dave Leibowitz said under his breath. "Like that's a big surprise."
"What did you say?" Brannigan asked.
Dave grinned weakly. "I said, 'That'll be nice.'
attitude, Leibowitz," Brannigan said. He turned to Alfredo. "When are we going in?"
"Tomorrow morning," the CIA operative replied. "And again. Happy Thanksgiving."
He walked from the warehouse, and the SEALs turned back to their holiday repast.
Chapter 3
THE GRAN CHACO SEAL BASE CAMP
30 NOVEMBER
LIEUTENANT Wild Bill Brannigan chose the site for the permanent base camp after making a close study of a combination of maps and satellite photographs of the OA. The selected area was situated on firm ground where the Lozano Grasslands and Los Perdidos Swamp came together. The farther someone walked from the grassy area westward into the swamp, the softer and wetter the terrain became until the wanderer would be in water that could be anywhere from ankle deep to over his head. To add an attribute of danger to the marshy environment, pools of quicksand lay hidden under the murky depths.
This swamp was definitely not visitor friendly.
The base camp location offered an easily defended position as well as a handy place where supplies and ammunition could be securely cached. The marshland also made it unnecessary to set up a defensive perimeter of 360 degrees. The firing positions were arranged in a horseshoe shape with the open side next to the bog. Not even the most determined enemy would be able to mount an effective attack from that direction. A system of streams that offered enough depth for the raider boats and piraguas ran from the north side of the camp to the nearby Rio Ancho. As far as Brannigan could determine, the river would be the main travel route used in the coming operation against the Falangists.
The Command Element was located to the center rear of the horseshoe, while the First Assault Section covered the center right around to the right flank. The left center and flank were protected by the Second Assault Section. However, there were no trees, and the grass was not high enough to offer much in the way of concealment. This problem was dealt with handily through the use of camouflage netting slung low to the ground. In addition to protecting the fighting positions from sight, the arrangement provided concealment for Brannigan's CP, the supply stockpile watched over by the Odd Couple, Frank Gomez's commo center, and the medical aid station set up by Hospital Corpsman James Bradley. Additionally, a trio of temporary OPs had been put out in front of the perimeter for use when necessary.
The detachment also constructed some small, fortified dugouts to be used as living quarters. The abodes were quickly dubbed "hooches," and were also skillfully camouflaged to blend in naturally with the local surroundings. Most of these earthen domiciles were occupied by two or three SEALs who shared the housekeeping and maintenance chores.
It was from this bucolic headquarters complex sunk into the terrain of the Gran Chaco that Brannigan's Brigands would carry on their campaign against the enigmatic enemy known as Falangists. Even to the pragmatic SEALs, used to operating under austere and perilous circumstances, this latest setup had an eerie, unknown quality about it. It was almost like being on another planet, albeit a hot, steamy mosquito-infested one.
RIO ANCHO
0830 HOURS
IT was raining heavily as the First Assault Section under Lieutenant (J. G.) Jim Cruiser came down the Rio Ancho in a raider boat towing a piragua to use when silent traveling was necessary. The Odd Couple, Mike Assad and Dave Leibowitz, had been attached to the patrol to act in their usual capacity as scouts. After a short twenty-minute run along the waterway, the patrol reached a point where a large creek intersected the river. Cruiser decided to hold up at that location and send the Odd Couple forward in the piragua to see what lay ahead.
The section moved into the cover offered by the vegetation along the banks to wait for the result of the Odd Couple's recon. Chad Murchison and Garth Redhawk were put on outpost duty a dozen meters up the creek. The pair, their ponchos dripping, sloshed through the wet grass to reach the position.
Redhawk, one of the new men in the Brigands, was a Kiowa-Comanche from southwestern Oklahoma. This descendant of two of the fiercest warrior tribes of the American prairie country was the quintessential Native American. The SEAL was dark-skinned with coal-black hair, and his sharp features gave him a rather aggressive countenance when he wasn't smiling. The effect was intensified when he applied camouflage paint to his face. Rather than put on irregular smears like everyone else, he applied a special pattern used by the Comanche warriors of old. The bold stripe over his eyes and the zigzag pattern down his cheeks symbolized thunder and lightning, the plains Indians' representation of war. It was something learned from his grandfather, who was a member of a society dedicated to the study of the culture and history of their ancestors. This elder Redhawk, a retired schoolteacher, wag in the finishing stages of writing a Kiowa-English dictionary in a project to preserve the native tongue before it disappeared altogether from use.
It was from his grandfather that Redhawk learned about the tradition of medicine bundles for divine protection in battle. His was a small pouch that contained a hunk of wood from an Oklahoma cottonwood tree that had been struck by lightning. The other item was the original trident badge issued him by the Navy when he qualified as a SEAL. The young Native American would add other charms as his combat experiences multiplied.
Chad Murchison cr
ouched in the grass beside Redhawk as they maintained watch out over the empty rain-swept grasslands to their direct front. The two, who hadn't known each other before Redhawk's arrival in the detachment, had been silent for almost a half hour. Then Redhawk asked, "How come you guys call Assad and Leibowitz the Odd Couple?"
"There's quite a story behind them," Chad said. "You've probably taken note of the fact that they are the best of buddies, have you not?"
"Yeah," Redhawk said with a slight grin. He was slightly amused by Chad's accent and manner of speaking. "I did take note of that."
"What makes that deep friendship so unique is the fact that Mike is an Arab-American and Dave is Jewish," Chad explained. "That's quite a mix when one considers the animosity between the two ethnic groups. You wouldn't think they would be buddies, but they're about as inseparable as twin brothers. Thus, we have dubbed them the Odd Couple. Like the Neil Simon characters in his play. Get it?"
"I get it," Redhawk said. He was not familiar with the play but knew the TV series. "Them two are Felix Unger and Oscar Madison in the real world. But maybe they're both just out of touch with their ancestries."
Chad shook his head. "Mike speaks Arabic and was raised in the Muslim faith. He's from an Arab community near Detroit. Dave's family is far from secular, and he was brought up in that culture. He even has family in Israel."
"Does he speak Hebrew?"
"Just enough to get bar mitzvahed," Chad replied. "The Leibowitz family has evidently been in America for several generations?'
"So has the Redhawk family."
"Indeed," Chad remarked.
They fell back into silence, maintaining their vigil over the immediate area. After another half hour passed a single small splashing sound could be heard to the direct front. Immediately a voice came over the LASH headsets.
"This is Mike. Me and Dave are coming back."
A few moments later the piragua appeared, and the two SEAL scouts nodded greetings to Chad and Redhawk as they poled by. It took another minute before they came to the spot near the junction of river and creek where Cruiser and Bruno Puglisi had set up just behind the rest of the section. The wooden boat was taken up to the bank, and the scouts jumped out.
"We didn't find anything, sir," Leibowitz reported. "The grasslands are empty up to where we went. But we determined the creek can give us good penetration farther into that area. It stays wide and goes anywhere from three to maybe five feet deep."
"Good enough," Cruiser said. "We'll tie the piragua to the raider boat and move up a couple of kilometers for another scout." He spoke into his AN/PRC-126 radio handset. "Alpha and Bravo leaders, this is Brigand One. Bring your guys in. We're going to extend this patrol a bit more. Out."
Chief Matt Gunnarson and Connie Concord gathered up their men for the short trek back to the boats.
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PIAGGIO P 166
TURBOJET OVER THE CHILEAN-BOLIVIAN BORDER
THE rainstorm had blown through the Gran Chaco as Generalisimo Jose Maria de Castillo y Plato sat in the passenger cabin of the small private jet aircraft, gazing down 2,500 meters to the ground below. He had a special appreciation for what he saw. This was where the Dictadura Fascista de FaIangia was to be established, and he fully expected the nation to be flourishing well within a year to eighteen months. This flight, his first into the potential domain, was to take overall command of the preliminary military actions to conquer the Gran Chaco. But first he wished to make an inspection of the small, scattered detachments of the Falangist Army.
Teniente-Coronel Jeronimo Busch of the Chilean Army sat dozing beside him. This paratrooper, who was carried on the roster of his parachute infantry battalion as AWOL, was Castillo's main liaison officer when it came to dealing with the mutineers of the Chilean, Argentine and Bolivian armed forces. After months as a military attache in Madrid, Busch was looking forward to being back in camouflage fatigues to do some real soldiering with a 9-millimeter Star submachine gun in his hands. He'd even taken some time before this trip to get in a couple of parachute jumps with his battalion before taking French leave.
On the other side of the aircraft's aisle, Castillo's personal adjutant, Suboficial Ignacio Perez, busily perused the latest logistical figures in one of his many notebooks. The skinny little man looked as if he belonged more in a chess tournament than in a military campaign.
Jose Maria de Castillo y Plato, the supreme leader of the Falangists, was five feet, ten inches tall with a physique of muscular compactness. Long years of service in Morocco in the Spanish Foreign Legion had brought him into middle age in excellent physical condition; additionally, it was during this time that he painstakingly developed his personal political philosophy. He was trapped in a more or less arranged marriage to a grumpy, unattractive wife he had left behind in Madrid. Consequently Castillo had empty hours in the evenings with little to do in the isolated garrison where he had been posted. He could have filled the time with heavy drinking in the mess or fornicating with local slatterns brought in for the officers' collective pleasure, but he preferred to use the time to write a manifesto he had entitled La Nueva Falange de la Espana Moderna (The New Falange of Modem Spain). He further separated his new brand of fascism from the traditional by placing an accent mark in the name. Thus his followers were known as Falangistas rather than Falangistas.
It had all been laboriously spelled out in his neat, precise handwriting, and when it came time to have it entered into a word processor, he knew who to turn to. One of the clerk-typists in his tercio was a small, clever fellow by the name of Ignacio Perez, who had been convicted of forgery and embezzlement. The judge had given him a choice of fifteen years in the penitentiary or three years in the Foreign Legion, and he had chosen the military option. Unfortunately, Perez was not good soldier material and had been beaten half to death by the noncommissioned officers for his physical ineptness until it was discovered that he had certain office and administrative skills. Such individuals were rare in the Legion Extranjera, and the fellow was rescued to an assignment in headquarters, where his expertise in typing and filing could be put to good use. Most legionnaires were pathetic brutes who could barely read and write. Eventually, Castillo pulled Perez from headquarters and put him to work full-time entering his political writings into a word processor.
Castillo's philosophies were more than just a little different from that of the original Falange. He had no devotion to the Catholic Church, considering the modern version of the religion in Spain as too liberal and leftist. Instead, he looked to the archangel Michael for divine guidance and inspiration. After all, Arcangel Miguel was the warrior angel who had cast Satan down into hell. Castillo wrote a carefully crafted pamphlet explaining how Archangel Michael would give his followers spiritual guidance if they meditated properly, seeking a mystical rapport with him by drawing off by themselves and concentrating deep enough to turn off external stimuli and distractions.
Castillo designed an insignia of a medieval knight's sword with wings to represent the archangel, placing it on the center of the original Falangist flag design. He further decreed that the DFF would be run from a Center of Supreme Command and Dictates, using corporations to administer the running of the dictatorship. There would be separate corporations for Power (nuclear rather than fossil fuel), Transport (sea, land and air), Medical (including euthanasia of the hopelessly ill as well as the insane and feebleminded), Public Safety (to include the Secret Police), Sports and Recreation, Merchandising, and others as needed. The armed forces, of course, would be kept separate and run personally by the generalisimo and his handpicked staff.
Castillo sincerely felt that this organization would be welcomed by the weary, disappointed populaces of Western democracies who would appreciate a strong leader to take them away from the decadent, disorganized and corrupt society they lived in. Only people of European ancestry would be allowed in the ruling class of the DFF. The darker races would be the laborers and factory workers while Orientals would be employed in
the sciences under strict supervision of the Europeans. Semitic people--both Jewish and Arabic would be eradicated in a carefully applied program of genocide. They would be joined by Gypsies and homosexuals as the new Falangists finished the job the Nazis started in World War II.
When Ignacio Perez finished entering the manifesto in the word processor and printed it out, Castillo took a thirty-day leave to distribute the document. His family members were wealthy industrialists with heavy investments and ownership in manufacturing, and he used these kinsmen to establish contacts not only in Spain but also France, Portugal and Germany to expound on his goals. In almost all cases he met with enthusiastic approval by these people who would be at the top of the heap if this philosophy became an established government. The present political climate in Europe forced them to exercise great clandestineness in their support. However, they were most generous with their secret donations hidden within the enigmatic ledgers where one plus one equaled whatever sum pleased the accountant. Within a short period of time it became apparent there would be absolutely no problem in funding the operation.
The South American side of the great scheme came into being from a Chilean military attache in that nation's embassy in Madrid. Teniente-Colonel Jeronimo Busch was not only fanatic about becoming a follower but had contacts in the right-wing elements of his own army and also those of Argentina and Bolivia. Disaffected officers in all three countries were looking for a way to rid their homelands of what they considered effete, leftist governments.
Thus, like the proverbial snowball rolling down the mountain, the Falangist movement picked up speed, steadily gaining momentum and strength.
