by Jack Terral
THE LOZANO GRASSLANDS
3 DECEMBER
0930 HOURS LOCAL
THE savannah offered little in the way of cover. Mike Assad and Dave Leibowitz knew they could easily be spotted by anyone within a short distance, and the duo moved cautiously and alertly, wanting to make sure they would see any strangers before they saw them. They had split off from the First Assault Section to investigate what lay ahead of them after the detachment left the boats and moved onto the grasslands. This was the Odd Couple's element, and the pair was used to operating alone in enemy territory.
The entire area was cut by little streams, and they could easily jump across most. Fortunately, the wider ones were shallow enough to be effortlessly waded. The two worked well together, able to conduct an excellent recon without one spoken word. Quick hand signals or gestures were all that was necessary for the team to exchange information on what was seen and heard as they moved along. If they found themselves in a situation that required them to speak, all they had to do was whisper into their LASH headsets that amplified the sound in the earphones to make it seem a normal tone of voice to the receiving party.
It was Dave who first came across the trail that had been smashed down in the grass. He called Mike up to him, and they dropped to their knees to study the spoor. "It looks like maybe a dozen men, don't you think?" Mike whispered.
Dave nodded. "Right on. I'd say they're moving from southwest to northeast."
"Wait a minute," Mike said. "They've come along here in both directions." He leaned closer to the ground to study the tracks. "Right! They came in from the northeast, and went back in the exact opposite direction."
"Bad habit:' Dave said. "You should never follow the same path twice in enemy territory."
"What if they don't consider this enemy territory, ol' buddy? This is prob'ly their stomping grounds."
"Good point," Dave said. "From where we are now, I say they came from their base camp, and went down to that village, then back to their own place again. I think we ought to move slightly to the north and then turn east."
"You're right," Mike said. "That way we can take a roundabout way to whatever destination those guys were headed for."
The add Couple put the plan into action, moving through the grass on the chosen azimuth. Both were glad it was too early for the mosquitoes to come out. It was bad enough trying to conduct an efficient recon without having the little bastards buzzing around. The insect repellent kept them off, but they were still a nuisance. A half hour passed, then Dave whispered into his LASH.
"Hold it!"
Mike looked up and saw what had alarmed him. A column of twelve men were coming their way. The strangers seemed to be on the alert as if expecting trouble for someone. The Odd Couple decided it was the latter; and they moved back into some deeper grass to observe.
Mike and Dave used their binoculars for a closer look. The strangers were obviously military men garbed in camouflage uniforms, carrying weapons, and wearing web gear. "Hey," Dave whispered, "get a load of the insignia sewn on their arms."
Mike noted the red and black flash of the Falangists on the sleeves. "They're the bad guys all right."
"Well, why don't we follow 'em and see where they're going?" Dave suggested.
"May I lead?"
"Be my guest."
As they followed the patrol, they noted the professionalism of its members. Their physical conditioning seemed mixed, but they were obviously well-disciplined. As expected, they went straight to Novida.
The Odd Couple found a small knoll on the northwest side of the small community that offered good observation. The patrol was given warm greetings by the civilians, and the troops seemed familiar with the village. They went to the well where some women were drawing water, and carried on what seemed to be polite conversation with the females.
"Mmm," Mike mused. "They seem to have been told to be respectful to the local ladies. That means the value of good conduct with the indigenous personnel has been emphasized to them."
"Their leaders have prob'ly read Mao's Little Red Book"
"Yeah," Mike said. "It looks like the patrol is moving on. I'll bet half my next payday that the bastards are out looking for us."
"I'll bet all my next payday," Dave said. "C'mon! We got to get back to the detachment."
The two SEALs slid off the knoll, then turned toward Big Creek.
.
SEAL BIVOUAC
BIG CREEK
1400 HOURS LOCAL
THE Odd Couple, having rejoined the First Assault Section, led them back through the outlying defensive perimeter of the bivouac. The group hurried in the direction to Lieutenant Wild Bill Brannigan's CP. While the riflemen and the SAW gunner of the team dropped off, Lieutenant James Cruiser, Chief Matt Gunnarson and Connie Concord followed Mike and Dave. As the quintet strolled toward the creek, they were joined by Senior Chief Buford Dawkins, Milly Mills and Gutsy Olson of the Second Assault Section.
Brannigan was munching on a cereal bar when the eight men arrived. "Well!" he said. "And to what do I owe the honor of all these visitors?"
"Recon report, sir:' Mike said. He quickly gave an oral presentation detailing the results of the scouting trip, telling about the Falangist patrol and its friendly reception at Novida.
"We'd pretty much figured the enemy had made friends with the locals," Brannigan said. "Not much surprise there. But I'd like to find out where those Falangists call home. And what sort of camp or garrison they might have."
"I volunteer the Second Assault Team for the mission, sir:' the senior chief said.
"Accepted," Brannigan said. "I think you also better take another look at that village to see if there's any unusual activity there. The place could be an auxiliary headquarters of some kind." He looked at the Odd Couple and started to speak.
"We know, sir," Dave interrupted. "We'll be on point." Brannigan smiled. "You'll leave at oh-five-hundred hours tomorrow."
.
THE LOZANO GRASSLANDS
VICINITY OF NOVIDA
4 DECEMBER
1030 HOURS LOCAL
THE Second Assault Section was sprawled in the thick grass, arranged in a defensive circle that offered protection from all sides. Senior Chief Petty Officer Buford Dawkins and his SAW gunner Petty Officer Second Class Joe Miskoski were in the middle of the formation. Joe lay on his back, snoozing through a light nap, while Dawkins sat cross-legged, glancing off in the direction of the small cattle-raising settlement.
The plucky, hardworking Odd Couple had been gone for close to an hour. Their mission was to run a recon of the village to check out the activity, keeping a special lookout for any Falangist units that might be in the vicinity. The senior chief reached over and roughly shook Joe awake at almost the same instant a whisper came over the LASH net from Lamar Taylor. "The recon team is coming in."
Buford raised himself just enough to see Mike Assad and Dave Leibowitz approaching the perimeter. Three minutes later the scouts joined him, sinking wearily into sitting positions at his side.
"The village is clear," Mike said. "Only the locals are there."
"But there's some cowboy types out with the cattle to the west," Dave added. "We can reach that track in the grass left by the Falangists if we go north, then turn back toward the southwest. From that point on, we can go straight to wherever it is they came from."
"It's a no-sweater," Mike assured the senior chief.
"Right," Dawkins said. He spoke into the LASH micro-phone. "Team leaders, get your guys up. We're moving out."
The section began a circuitous march, easing north to avoid the village and its cattle. The going was easy, but need for intense alertness and continuous observation slowed the speed of the trek down to only a little faster than a crawl. The Falangists could be anywhere in the area, and they had already shown a disturbing propensity for sending out patrols. An hour and a half passed before the SEALs came across the trails left by the enemy. At that point, the distance between each man was increased, and t
he Odd Couple moved out on the point some twenty-five meters from the column.
.
OUTSIDE THE FALANGIST GARRISON
1400 HOURS LOCAL
MIKE Assad lay against the creek bank that sank a meter and a half into the terrain. He used the grass along the sides of the waterway for cover as he surveyed the enemy camp with his binoculars. Dave Leibowitz was on lookout on the other side of the creek, squatting down with his CAR-15 at the ready.
"Man!" Mike whispered as he watched the activity in the garrison. "Those guys are really chickenshit. I haven't seen so much saluting and drilling since we were up at Camp Pendleton last month."
"They've got a strong European tradition," Dave reminded him. "Remember what Alfredo said back in isolation." He looked behind to check out the area to the rear, then turned back toward the front. "How many guys do they have?"
"I'd say forty or so," Mike said. "That means they outnumber us about two to one."
"That's just this camp," Dave said. "They might have another."
"Hell!" Mike said. "They might have a dozen more. Who knows? Alfredo wasn't even sure." He put away his binoculars and crossed the creek, climbing up to join Dave.
"Mission accomplished! Let's get back to the senior chief and the section. We need to report to the Skipper before dark."
The two scouts moved in crouching positions as they hurried across the savannah toward the spot where Dawkins and the Second Assault Section waited for them.
Chapter 5
SEAL BIVOUAC
BIG CREEK
4 DECEMBER
1500 HOURS LOCAL
EVERYONE'S BDUs were sweat-soaked and grass-stained from days of wear. The high afternoon temperature was compounded by the heavy humidity, and while the SEALs perspired heavily, it did little to cool them since it couldn't evaporate in the steamy atmosphere. Some of the sweating might have come from nerves; this was a combat mission briefing. Apprehension is an emotional characteristic that affects both the mind and body even among the military elite.
The Odd Couple along with the section commanders, SAW gunners, and team leaders were sprawled on the grass in front of Lieutenant Wild Bill Brannigan. Chad Murchison, standing CP watch, stood off to one side listening. The rest of the detachment was out on security, enduring the discomfort of a bright, burning sun in the treeless and consequently shadeless terrain. Everyone was wishing for rain, even though it would offer no more than temporary relief before adding to the steamy discomfort.
Over at his briefing, the Skipper tipped his boonie hat onto the back of his head as he surveyed his subordinate leaders. He took a deep breath as if to make an important announcement, and the words he uttered, while not earth-shattering, were profound: "We came here to fight."
The SEALs looked at each other, shrugging as if to say, "So what else is new?"
"The situation we're in fits an old Chinese proverb I once heard," Brannigan continued. "The best way to test a tiger's courage and strength is to let him out of his cage." He grinned. "But in this case, the situation we have here today dictates that we go into the cage to get a rise out of the son of a bitch."
Connie Concord, leader of Bravo Fire Team, took the blade of grass he was chewing out of his mouth. "I hope we ain't gonna lock that cage door behind us once we're in there, sir."
"Oh, no," Brannigan assured him. "We'll have a way out in case those fangs and claws are stronger than we anticipated. This mission is to launch a sneak attack in the dark, shoot up the place, then make a quick withdrawal back into the cover of night."
Gutsy Olson, honcho of Delta Fire Team, looked up. "What if we start kicking their asses?"
"Then we'll continue the fight," Brannigan said. "If we inflict enough casualties, we'll break the back of this revolution. If that happens, we could easily be home by Christmas."
"There is one historical aspect of war that cannot be denied," Chad Murchison said. "There has never been one that ended in time for the troops to be home by Christmas." He glanced around. "I'm awfully sorry to be so pessimistic, fellows."
Bruno Puglisi chuckled. "Perfectly all right, old chum. Perhaps we'll be back in time for the polo season, hey, what?"
Chad's face reddened at the loud laughter of the others. He had tried to keep his privileged background a secret, but the longer a man serves in a unit, the more his buddies learn about him. They met his sweetheart, Penny Brubaker, when the unit was in Afghanistan. She was a UN relief worker, and it was obvious to the SEALs that the couple came from moneyed families.
"Oh, dear!" Joe Miskoski said. "I do miss driving about in my Rolls-Royce, chaps."
"Shut up!" Senior Chief Buford Dawkins bellowed. "This is a mission briefing not a bullshit session."
"Right you are, Senior Chief," Brannigan said, grinning to himself at Miskoski and Puglisi's affected upper-class accents. "So here's how it's going down. We'll leave the bivouac at twenty-four hours. Needless to say, make sure you have your night vision goggles with you. We'll go in a direct line to the position of the enemy garrison as was determined by the Odd Couple's GPS reading. When we arrive, the First Assault Section will form a line from east up to north. The Second Section will be from east around to the south. That will make a nice tight horseshoe formation. We don't want to completely surround the place or we'll be inflicting casualties on ourselves through friendly fire."
"Where is the Command Element gonna be, sir?" James Bradley asked.
"Right in the center," Brannigan replied. "The attack will be a fire mission only with automatic fire. There won't be much of a chance for sniping; and I want the two SAW gunners to pour a hell of a lot of quick bursts into the target area. You guys might not hit very many of 'em, but they'll sure as hell keep their heads down and not move around a lot. When I determine I've learned enough of about their capabilities, I'll order a withdrawal. We'll beat it back here, then hop aboard the boats for a trip back to the base camp:'
"What about commo, sir?" Frank Gomez asked.
"All transmissions between myself and the section and team leaders will be over the AN/PRCs," Brannigan said.
"Team commo will be by LASH." He checked his watch. "We'll be leaving in approximately nine hours. Get back to your guys and brief them. I want everybody to take advantage of this opportunity to rest up:'
The SEALs got slowly to their feet, then walked out toward the perimeter to find their teams.
.
HEADQUARTERS, BANDERA 1
1945 HOURS LOCAL
THE evening guard scheduled to take over the garrison's defensive perimeter had been drawn up on the parade ground in the vicinity of the headquarters hut. All wore freshly washed camouflage uniforms complete with Kevlar helmets, LASH headsets, night vision goggles and binoculars. Their web equipment held ammo pouches filled with magazines of 5.56-millimeter rounds for their CETME assault rifles. The only thing different from normal field attire were their boots; the footwear was spit-shined bright enough to pass inspection on any parade ground.
The officer of the guard for the night was Suboficial Adolfo Punzarron. He had dressed like the others with the exception of his headgear. Rather than a helmet, he wore the tasseled olive-green forage cap of the Spanish Foreign Legion. In place of the usual webbing, he sported a pistol belt holding a holstered Spanish Astra 7.63-millimeter automatic pistol.
Punzarron marched over to the far right man in the rank to begin his inspection. He went down the line from man to man, finding no fault with their collective appearance. These were veterans with years of military service and knew all the tricks of falling out sharp for guard mount. They were also aware of the suboficial' s violent temper and wished to avoid a hard punch to the face. Everything looked good to Punzarron until he reached a Chilean paratrooper sergeant named Antonio Muller. There was no shine on his boots.
Punzarron snapped his eyes up to look straight into Muller's face. "Your boots look as if you rubbed melted chocolate all over them. Why did you not shine them?"
"My boot
s are for use in the field," Muller said calmly. He was also a large, muscular man who had spent his entire military career in parachute rifle companies. "I therefore applied waterproof dubbing for use on active operations, rather than polish to make them shiny and pretty."
Punzarron seemed to growl as he spoke. "I specifically issued orders that boots are to be highly shined for guard mount."
Muller sneered. "I'm no parade ground martinet. I'm a parachute infantryman, por Dios, and I'm going to look like one. I am ready for combat, not prancing about on a parade ground."
Punzarron threw a punch, but Muller deftly ducked it while handing off his rifle to the man next to him. The suboficial tried again, but Muller was faster, slamming his fist into the ex-legionnaire's jaw. Punzarron went down but quickly got back to his feet, charging his opponent. Muller was ready and responded with a combination of hooks and uppercuts that sent Punzarron to the dirt once more. This time when the Portuguese sprang to his feet, the had a knife in his right hand.
Muller stepped back, grabbing his rifle. "This is a pelea entre soldados--a soldier's fight--there is no place for a knife here. We are not thugs brawling in a tavern."
"There were no gentlemanly rules for fighting in the Spanish Foreign Legion," Punzarron said. "So you either continue to fight or give up."
"I am not going to fight like a street hoodlum," Muller said. "So shoot me with your rifle:' Punzarron challenged.
"I told you I am a soldier," Muller said. "I will not murder a superior officer."
"Then you give up?"
"I do not give up," Muller insisted. "I quit out of disgust!"
Punzarron laughed in triumph. "Es el mismo--it is the same." He slipped his knife back into its hiding place in his pistol belt, then called the guards to attention. After facing them to the left, he marched them off for posting.
Over on the thatched veranda of the headquarters but Generalisimo Jose Maria de Castillo y Plato stood with Teniente-Coronel Jeronimo Busch. They had observed the altercation between Punzarron and Muller. Busch took the cigar out of his mouth. "I am not so sure the customs and traditions of the Spanish Foreign Legion should be applied in the Falangist forces, mi generalisimo. These men are all noncommissioned officers."
