by Jack Terral
"Strict discipline for both soldiers and civilians will be the norm in the Dictadura Fascista de Falangia, Coronel Busch."
"I agree that many of our men are being put into excellent physical condition under Suboficial Punzarron," Busch said. "And they will set excellent examples when we begin filling the ranks with younger, inexperienced recruits. But such discipline could cause serious problems with South Americans?' He turned and looked at Castillo. "Allow me to respectfully point out that we are not as compliant as Europeans:'
"Compliance is an unpleasant word for obedience, Coronel Busch," Castillo said. "When used in its proper place, the expression puts the concept into a better light." He walked toward the door of the building. "Care to join me for a whiskey?"
"Con mucho gusto, mi generalisimo!"
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5 DECEMBER
0200 HOURS LOCAL
BRANNIGAN'S Brigands came into the attack area in a double column, moving easily across the savannah with the darkness brightened to green hues in the night vision goggles. As they reached the point where the Odd Couple stood, the First Assault Section peeled off to the north to take up positions, while Senior Chief Buford Dawkins's Second Assault Section went south. Wild Bill Brannigan and his Command Element gathered around Mike Assad and Dave Leibowitz as the others continued on to the battle line.
Brannigan checked his watch, then spoke into the AN/PRC-126. "Brigand One and Brigand Two, this is Brigand. Move your teams forward to your firing positions. Make sure you place the SAW gunners where they can do the most good. Out."
The detachment began arranging itself for the coming firefight.
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SARGENTO Antonio Muller sat cross-legged at his guard post, still seething over the knife-pulling by Punzarron. That hijo de la chingada portugues was going to have to be taught a severe lesson. He would learn the hard way that the Old World mierda of Europe wasn't going to work in South America; especially the ways of that goddamn Foreign Legion the son of a bitch served in over in Morocco.
Muller raised the Spanish-manufactured Vista-Nocturna binoculars to his eyes and used its night vision capability to survey his area of responsibility on the perimeter. Suddenly a trio of armed men rose out of the grass to his direct front, moving a few meters toward him before dropping back to the ground. Muller went directly to his LASH, raising Punzarron. "Alarms! Unknown armed men approaching the garrison limits."
Punzarron, who had been dozing in the adjutant's office of the headquarters hut, leaped to his feet and rushed out to the veranda where the alarm gong hung. Following Legion custom, he began banging it to call the camp to arms.
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THE BATTLE
THE sounds of a banging gong and men shouting rolled across the savannah. Brannigan grabbed the ANIPRC-126 to contact the section and team leaders. He ignored proper radio transmission procedures as he ordered, "Open fire!"
Immediately salvos of automatic fire sparked from the SEALs' positions, slapping into the Falangist camp. The SAWs, employed by Bruno Puglisi and Joe Miskoski, sent out sweeping volleys at the rate of 725 rounds a minute. Even with a carefully applied delivery of fire bursts of six bullets at a time, the magazines emptied quickly. Puglisi and Joe, like the others, had no visual targets and were forced to keep their individual areas of fire covered by shooting blindly into the enemy camp.
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TENIENTE-CORONEL Jeronimo Busch had slipped into his boots and grabbed both the Star 9-millimeter submachine gun and ammo harness at about the same instant that Punzarron hit that gong for the third time. He rushed outside, meeting Castillo on the veranda. Both realized they had absolutely no idea of where to go. But an agile cabo suddenly appeared to lead them to some slit trenches at the side of the building. Within moments a thoroughly terrified Ignacio Perez joined them. The little adjutant said nothing as he huddled into a fetal position in the dirt.
Toledo, his capitemes and noncommissioned officers were now at their positions as they had practiced during countless training drills. A good rate of rifle fire was pouring outward at the attackers, backed up by a trio of machine guns.
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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 you heads down! The incoming fire is as thick as swarms of hornets. Out!"
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COMANDANTE Javier Toledo had been informed minutes before by Capitan Roberto Argento that there was no-incoming on the east side of the camp. He ordered the Argentine officer to move his section over to the west side to add to the firepower in that area. Now Argento's men were interspaced with those of Capitanes Silber and Platas. The rate of outgoing fire was increasing dramatically, giving confidence to the Falangists.
Teniente-Coronel Jeronimo Busch didn't like lying in the slit trench. Cowering during a firefight wasn't part of his Prussian-Chilean heritage. He slipped into the harness with the extra forty-round magazines, pulling the night vision goggles out of their pouch on the shoulder strap. The Chilean gripped the submachine gun and leaped from the hole in the dirt. He rushed across the bullet-swept open space to join the fighters on the perimeter as he pulled the goggles down over his eyes.
Busch threw himself down between a pair of riflemen and began kicking off fire bursts at the muzzle flashes blinking rapidly from the attacker's side of the battle. After a few moments, the paratrooper officer noted a marked less fire on the right flank. He immediately realized that the attackers were in the process of breaking contact. He scrambled to his feet and rushed to that side of the line, once more diving to the ground when he reached an advantageous spot for some serious shooting. This time he carefully regulated his pulls on the trigger, sending controlled fire bursts toward the enemy. Within a minute he was aware there was no one to his direct front. Now was the time to pull a one-man maneuver to outflank the bastardos. Busch jumped up yet again, rushing forward to seek combat.
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BRANNIGAN ordered Bravo Fire Team to pull out of the fight. Connie Concord led his men toward the rear to join Cruiser and Bruno Puglisi. Cruiser yelled at the Bravos, "Hold up!"
Connie halted the men. "Aye, sir! What's the word?"
"Let's kick out some more salvos before we break contact," Cruiser said. "We don't want them to feel too confident about leaving the safety of their camp."
The Bravos, with Puglisi playing the SAW like a musical instrument, raked the area to the front with bullets. As they laid down the fire, the Command Element was heading off to join the others who had already pulled out of the line.
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BUSCH was now crawling through the grass, paying no attention to the fact that he was headed into some of the Falangist fire as he worked his way down the line formerly held by the attackers. He finally spotted what appeared to be five men firing in the direction of the garrison. They suddenly leaped up to pull back.
Busch fired a long burst toward them, damning himself for not having arrived fifteen seconds earlier. He was rewarded with the sight of an attacker bowled over to the ground by the simultaneous strike of at least two of the 9-millimeter slugs. Suddenly a couple of the fallen man's pals turned on him, cutting loose with a wicked volley of return fire. Busch had to scamper backward to find cover as bullets plowed
the grass and dirt around him.
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LIEUTENANT Jim Cruiser was the man hit. At almost the exact moment he collapsed to the ground, Lamar Taylor and Paulo Cinzento each grabbed him by an arm. He cussed in pain as they dragged him back toward the rear. When they reached the rest of the detachment, he had gone numb.
Brannigan rushed over to his 2IC. "Can you walk, Jim?" "Let me see:' Cruiser said. "Maybe if--oh shit! I can't feel my legs, Bill!"
The hospital corpsman, James Bradley, joined them. He knelt down and gave the wounded officer an examination in the eerie illumination of the night vision goggles. As he applied a field compress to the wound, he asked, "Can you move your legs, sir?"
Cruiser shook his head. "No."
Brannigan turned to Lamar and Paulo. "Form for a chair carry. We've got to get the hell out of here."
The two SEALs slung their CAR-15s and reached out to grab each other's wrists to form a "chair" of their forearms. Brannigan and James picked Cruiser up and set him on the two SEALs' strong arms.
The unit formed up with Charlie Fire Team acting as rear guard, and headed for the boats.
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"CESEN del fuego!"
Comandante Javier Toledo's voice boomed so loudly over the garrison area that he was heard above the shooting. The firing immediately ceased, leaving a buzzing silence in the men's battered eardrums. Castillo joined the bandera commander. "Are you going to pursue the enemy?"
"Only if I am ordered to do so, mi generalisimo."
"Why is that?" Castillo asked. He was used to the aggressive and risky tactics of the Spanish Foreign Legion.
"We do not know their numbers," Toledo explained. "The withdrawal could be a trap. An entire brigade of Bolivian infantry could be out there waiting for us to walk into an ambush."
Castillo was thoughtful for a moment. The comandante could be correct, and, of course, there weren't a lot of men in the bandera. One disaster could set the Falangist movement back as much as a year. "Very well, comandante. I agree with your choice of action."
Back on the firing line, Sargento Antonio Muller stood up and stretched. It had been one hell of a fight, though none of the Falangist subunits had sustained any casualties. The battle seemed to be more of fire than maneuver, and neither side had worked its way into an advantageous position. They simply exchanged shots.
Suboficial Adolfo Punzarron walked by, coming back from a front position where he'd been in the thick of the fight. His foreign legion forage cap was pushed forward cockily on his head, and his uniform was stained by mud and grass. He glanced over at Muller. "I'm going to put you in for a commendation, Sargento. Your timely warning of attackers probably saved the garrison."
Muller nodded. "It was a hell of a fight, eh, Suboficial Punzarron?"
Punzarron actually grinned. "It was a lot of fun, wasn't it?"
There would be peace now between the two. They were a couple of old soldiers who had cleared the air between them.
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BIG CREEK
0500 HOURS
MILLY Mills brought Charlie Team in from its rear guard duties. He sought out Brannigan to report that there was no pursuit, then asked, "How's Lieutenant Cruiser?"
"He was hit twice in the right side," Brannigan answered. "Bradley said one of the bullets didn't exit. He's afraid it's in the spine. Cruiser can't feel or move his legs."
"Shit!" Milly exclaimed. "He ain't paralyzed, is he, sir?"
"Bradley can't tell," Brannigan said. He turned to Chief Matt Gunnarson. "You're commander of the First Assault Section for now. Take over."
"Aye, sir."
Bradley watched as Taylor and Cinzento gently placed Cruiser in one of the piragua boats. After the officer was made comfortable, the rest of the detachment boarded the other craft for the trip back up the Rio Ancho to the base camp.
Chapter 6
SEAL BASE CAMP 6 DECEMBER
1800 HOURS LOCAL
LI E UTE NANT (J. G.) Jim Cruiser still had no feeling in his legs nor could he move them when he was placed aboard the Petroleo Colmo Company's Aerospatiale Gazelle helicopter for medical evacuation. Hospital Corpsman James Bradley supervised as Bruno Puglisi and Paulo Cinzento slid the stretcher into the aircraft's passenger compartment. Just before the cargo door was closed, Cruiser raised his right hand with the thumb extended to show his brother SEALs he still had a lot of fight left in him, even if it was mostly spiritual. He had taken a brutal physical battering from the almost simultaneous impact of the 9-millimeter slugs.
Brannigan and the others stood in silence as the chopper lifted into the air, then turned south toward civilization. No one moved for several long moments. The terrible potential consequences of the 2IC's injuries were foremost in their minds, along with that shameful personal thought of I'm glad it wasn't me.
Brannigan snapped them back to the present. "Listen up! We're going to have to reorganize a bit. Chief Gunnar-son will take over the First Assault Section. Petty Officer Lamar Taylor will move into his place as leader of Alpha Fire Team." He looked around. "Where the hell is the Odd Couple?"
"Here, sir!" Mike Assad and Dave Leibowitz called out simultaneously.
"I'm going to give you guys a break," Brannigan said. "You've been running your asses off. You'll go to Alpha Fire Team as riflemen. Petty Officers Redhawk and Murchison will take your places as detachment scouts."
"We ain't tired, sir," Mike protested.
"I didn't ask if you were," Brannigan said, knowing that stubborn pride was behind the protest. A SEAL just naturally disliked being put in a position where he appeared as if he weren't up to the job. The Skipper soothed the hurt feelings by adding, "When we move back into high gear, I want you jumpy and eager. Now! All the section commanders and team leaders report to me at my CP, which is located at this exact spot where I'm standing. The rest of you get out on the perimeter except for Frank Gomez."
"You want me to do something, sir?" the commo man asked.
"Right," Brannigan replied. "Get on the Shadowfire and raise Alfredo. Tell him we need reinforcements yesterday."
"Aye, sir!" Frank replied. He got his entrenching tool and headed for the cache where the radio was hidden.
The unit leaders moved closer to the Skipper. He grinned at them. "I swear I'm having more staff meetings than Pentagon lieutenant commanders."
"Your office ain't quite as elegant as theirs, sir," Senior Chief Buford Dawkins commented, looking around the area next to the feted swamp.
"You ain't got a good-looking secretary either," Connie Concord added.
"At any rate, we're going to have to get into an aggressive hit-and-run program," Brannigan said. "The Falangists outnumber us and undoubtedly will be sending out some serious recon and combat patrols to yank our chains. So we want to beat them to the punch. We're going to leave the base camp closed up and get the hell out of here for awhile. All detachmentsize operations will be curtailed for the time being. Sections and teams will operate separately on insurgency missions, but we'll stick as close together as possible to support each other when necessary. Moving around and biting at the enemy will keep him guessing and nervous. We'll also take advantage of the helicopter support we've got from Petroleo Colmo Company for resupply and to set up some scattered caches."
"Them bright red helicopters are like lit beacons flying through the sky," Gutsy Olson complained.
"They've been zipping around the area for months," Brannigan reminded him. "The Falangists and everybody else think they're exploring for oil in the Gran Chaco."
Frank Gomez came back from his commo chore and ripped off a page from his message pad, handing it to Brannigan. "Here's your answer, sir."
Brannigan read it, then shook his head. "No reinforcements available. It doesn't say if the situation is permanent or temporary. One thing I've learned in all my years of service is that the worst-case scenario is the one that's going to jump out and bite you. We're on our own."
"It's enough to piss off a saint," Chief Matt
Gunnarson said.
"We're enough to piss off a saint," Milly Mills added.
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HEADQUARTERS, BANDERA 1
GENERALISIMO Javier de Castillo y Plato had decided to give the headquarters garrison a name. The bucolic post would become larger as soon as Bandera 2 joined them. He had spent most of the previous night trying to decide which Spanish hero or heroic incident was good enough to be commemorated at this first official DFF military garrison.
Just before dawn, the decision was made. The generalisimo decided the camp would be dubbed Campamento Astray after one of Spain's most colorful military leaders. In fact, much of this inspiration for the twenty-first-century fascist organization came from that man.
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MILLAN Astray, the son of a lawyer, was born in La Coruria, Spain, in 1879. He began his military career at the Infantry Academy in Toledo in 1894 where he earned a commission as a subalterno de infanteria. Two years later he was shipped to the Philippines to fight against the indigenous rebels seeking to overthrow their Spanish masters. It was in that vicious campaign that Astray earned his first decoration for bravery when he defeated two thousand rebels with only thirty men under his command in a battle at San Rafael.
He was subsequently transferred back to Spain as a capitan, where he served as a teacher of military science and tactics at his alma mater, the Infantry Academy. By 1912 he had tired of the peaceful existence and volunteered to return to combat. This time they shipped the gung ho officer out to Morocco to fight indigenous African rebels. Five years later, after he was once again posted to Spain, Astray put forth an idea of forming a foreign legion similar to that of France to campaign in the Dark Continent's desert area. After being sent for a close-up study of la Legion Extrangere of France he came back to Spain to form la Legion Extranjera of Spain. This earned him a promotion to the rank of teniente-coronel and command of the new foreign legion he had designed.
When the first recruits arrived in la Legion, Astray told them to forget their former lives, women and families. Everything they needed would be furnished until they died in battle. And death would be their inevitable fate. They went into combat in a wild, reckless manner, giving no quarter and asking none in a series of bloody campaigns in which the legionarios earned a well-deserved reputation for cruelty and brutality.
