Guerilla Warfare (2006) s-2

by Jack Terral

  When the unloading chore was done, the chopper took off without further delay, heading to another location with more cargo. Now, laboring in the growing heat of the morning, the entire Command Element began stacking the goods in the excavation. Brannigan helped with the fetching and carrying, carefully putting ammo boxes and MRE cartons on the tarpaulins laid down for them. As soon as everything was ready, more canvas covering was put over the goods.

  At that point everyone scrambled out to begin the muscle-cramping task of shoveling dirt into the hole. As soon as that was finished, the careful camouflaging and masking of the location would be taken care of.

  Frank Gomez, dirty and sweating, worked his shovel like an automaton, throwing earth into the shallow chasm. He looked up at Chad Murchison, who labored like a coolie at the task.

  Chad winked at Frank. "I wonder what the poor people are doing today?"

  .

  OA, NORTHERN SECTION

  0945 HOURS LOCAL

  CHARLIE Fire Team--Milly Mills, Wes Ferguson and Pech Pecheur--moved cautiously across the savannah in a skirmish line as they approached a small village a hundred meters ahead. The bucolic community had been spotted during a flyover by the Dauphin chopper, and Senior Chief Buford Dawkins had detailed the Charlies to check the place out.

  As they drew closer, the SEALs noted the site was made up of a half-dozen grass-thatched huts and one long one that appeared to be a dining or meeting center. A few plowed areas appearing to be vegetable gardens were located on the west side of the site. A closer look showed the cultivated areas weren't producing much in the way of food.

  Some people came out of the larger building, indicating that a meal or meeting had been in progress. A tall, spindly, bearded man made his way through the small crowd. He stopped for a moment to gaze at the SEALs, then walked toward them in long strides. After going a few yards he stopped, waiting for them to come to him.

  Milly warily eyed the other people, speaking to his men out of the corner of his mouth. "You guys get ready. If as much as a single weapon appears, open fire and start moving back."

  However, the group of villagers did nothing more than watch them. When the SEALs walked up to the tall man, Milly nodded to him.

  "Buenos dias," the stranger said. "Como puedo servirles?"

  Milly reached in his pocket for his Spanish phrase book. He pulled it out, thumbing through the pages.

  The man noticed the book, his puzzlement evident by the expression on his face. "I speak English."

  "Oh?" Milly said. "Good! How do you do?"

  "I'm fine, thank you."

  "You're an American, ain't you?" Milly commented.

  "And evidently so are you," the man said pleasantly. "I am Reverend Walter Borden of the Christian Outreach Ministry. What can I do for you, sir? I assure you that we are on this land legally. I can produce all the permits and documentation issued us by the Bolivian government."

  "I see," Milly said. "My name is Mills. I--that is my men and me--dropped by to, well, to see how things was going with you folks."

  "What are you doing here?" Reverend Borden asked in unabashed curiosity.

  "I can't discuss that right now," Milly said. "And I don't want to be impolite, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you that same question. And I want an answer?'

  "You have the guns, sir," Borden said. "So I shall comply."

  "Let me add the magic word to my question," Milly said, grinning slightly. "Please tell me what you're doing here:'

  "I am part of an international ministry of outreach to the poor," Borden said. "We are based in Dallas, Texas, and send missions out to various parts of the world to preach the Gospel and save souls. I had been working in the slums of La Paz. My work had gotten very frustrating, and I obtained permission from our church to move my flock away from the distractions of big city evil to the countryside. We have established this little village as a place to live and worship as Christians. We call it Caridad. That means charity in Spanish."

  Milly looked past the man at the community. "Excuse me for saying so, Reverend, but you folks look a little worse for wear."

  "We are having difficulties at this time," Borden admitted. "Our efforts in raising our own food have fallen far short of our hopes and expectations. These are people from the city, after all. We were just discussing the situation when you appeared in the distance:'

  "I can help you out," Milly said. "Foodstuffs like flour, rice and beans can be here within a couple of hours."

  "We have no money, sir."

  "You don't need none," Milly assured him. "The eats will be supplied for free. That includes tools and even medicine. Or medical treatment, if you need it."

  "What would you require of us?" Borden asked suspiciously.

  "There's some bad men around here," Milly said. "Soldiers that call theirselves Falangists. We came here to get rid of 'em. We would appreciate your help in what we're trying to do. I'm not talking about taking up arms. Just keep an eye out and give us information if you happen to see any of 'em. That's all we ask."

  Borden shook his head. "I regret that I must refuse your kind offer of assistance after all, sir. We did not leave the turmoil of slum life to become embroiled in war."

  "All right, sir," Milly said. He had already been fully briefed in the procedures for establishing friendly rapport with any indigenous people in the Gran Chaco. "We don't ask nothing of you then. But we still would like to help. I bet we could even get you some new seed for your crops."

  "Your kindness seems like a sign from the Almighty," Borden said. "But I must reiterate that we will not become obligated to you in any way."

  "Not to worry, sir," Milly said.

  Borden swung his eyes to Wes Ferguson and Pech Pecheur. They seemed like a couple of tough guys, but there was an air of decency about them. He sighed and relented. "I must accept your help, sir. Frankly, we are desperate."

  "Happy to oblige, sir," Milly said, reaching for the handset of the AN/PRC-126 radio.

  Chapter 8

  STATE DEPARTMENT WASHINGTON, D. C.

  13 DECEMBER

  0915 HOURS LOCAL

  WHEN Carl Joplin, PhD, an undersecretary of state, left his office that morning, he carried no briefcase with him. He sauntered down the corridors of the building with his hands in his pockets, appearing like a man headed for the cafeteria to partake of a late breakfast. Wherever he might be going, he didn't seem to be in much of a hurry.

  And that was the exact impression he wished to make.

  Joplin was on his way to the bailiwick of no less a personage than United States Secretary of State Benjamin Bellingham. No prior arrangements had been made for the visit, and the undersecretary knew his unexpected arrival would not be met with pleasure by the boss man. The visit violated protocol in at least a dozen ways, but Joplin damned convention in order to take care of some vital business that morning.

  Now, perusing a copy of the Washington Post, Joplin sat in Bellingham's anteroom in front of the receptionist. Even an undersecretary would have to cool his heels if he walked in unannounced "from the street." Twenty minutes passed before the receptionist's phone rang. She answered softly and hung up, glancing at the unanticipated visitor.

  "The secretary will see you now, Dr. Joplin."

  "Thank you!" he said brightly, laying the newspaper aside.

  Joplin went through the door into the inner sanctum, walked down a short hallway to a massive portal and knocked on it. He entered after a gruff invitation was growled from inside.

  "What the hell's going on, Carl?" the secretary of state asked irritably. He was a bear of a man with a thick shadow of beard across his jowls in spite of having been shaved by his barber less than an hour previously.

  Joplin, completely at ease, walked up to the desk and plopped down in a handy chair. "I've a situation I need to speak to you about, Ben. It involves a little affair going on in the Gran Chaco area of Bolivia."

  "Oh, yes," Bellingham said. "A packet came across my
desk only yesterday. Just a moment." He reached into a box marked FILE, pulling out a red folder. He quickly perused the contents, then set it in front of him. "All right. A SEAL outfit is involved."

  "It is no more than a slightly reinforced platoon," Joplin said. "They are badly in need of additional personnel." Then he quickly added, "Fighting personnel, that is."

  Bellingham shrugged. "The information I have is that they're up against a right-wing guerrilla outfit not much more numerous than themselves. I wouldn't think that would be much of a problem for Navy SEALs. Besides, why isn't the local military doing anything about this?"

  "The information you received must be rather sketchy," Joplin said. "The situation is a hell of a lot more complicated than that:'

  "Then please feel free to enlighten me, Carl."

  "The Falangists have infiltrated the armed forces of Bolivia, Chile and Argentina," Joplin explained have moles in key areas that have not yet been identified. This is one of those well-known secrets that exist in these situations. The spies and informers are undoubtedly making up lists of names of those who'll be eliminated when and if their revolution is successful."

  "Blacklists are common among all conspirators," Bellingham pointed out. "Most shallow-minded zealots operate under the principle that other people are either with them or against them. There are no shades of gray in extremist political or religious movements."

  "You must keep in mind that the Latin American military are not in close harmony with the populations of their countries," Joplin said. "Besides, many of the officers are uneasy because of the possibility this is the beginning of the biggest revolution in the history of South America. They don't want to be on the outside looking in if a continental fascist dictatorship is established. Such a government would dominate the southern portion of the continent very quickly, then eventually conquer the rest of it. Any participants would be guaranteed high rank in the resultant gigantic army, navy and air forces. Their strength and influence would rival that of the United States. An American Falangist movement would undoubtedly emerge as well. All this in perhaps less than a decade."

  Bellingham shook his head, patting the folder. "My intelligence sources assure me this is a minor disturbance. In fact, it seems there's a CIA operative on the scene."

  "The Falangists have won the hearts and minds of some of the locals," Joplin pointed out. "They now have a helicopter and heavy support weaponry. This is just a start of what could be a flood of aircraft, arms and personnel."

  "What is the amount of this influx?"

  "It can't be determined at this point," Joplin admitted. "I need your permission to go to the Department of Defense and request a buildup of our force down there. Initially, our special operations capabilities in the situation should be tripled."

  "I don't feel that is necessary, Carl."

  "Then let's save some American lives and abandon the project."

  Bellingham frowned. "You know we can't do that! An agreement has already been made. It would be embarrassing if we pulled out. Hell! You were the one that worked out the deal."

  "The SEALs stand a good chance of being wiped out, Ben!" Joplin snapped.

  "I don't think so," Bellingham said. "Get back to me if there are any meaningful updates that radically change the situation."

  "If that happens it will happen fast," Joplin warned him. "And it will be too late for our people involved in the mission?'

  "I appreciate your concern, really," Bellingham said. "But--"

  "Thanks for your time, Ben," Carl said, standing up. "Just remember, this is a situation that could blow apart on us. Big time!" He walked to the door, his shoulders slumped.

  .

  VILLAGE OF CARIDAD

  1100 HOURS LOCAL

  ALFREDO the CIA operative and Charlie Fire Team, along with the reverend Walter Borden, stood beside the Dauphin helicopter as the bundles of goods for the villagers were unloaded and set in neat stacks on the ground. The cargo contained bags of rice, beans, dried fruit and vegetable seeds. Three small crates were included that had been packed with clothing, tools and basic medical supplies.

  The relief organization supplying the items was a clandestine group tied closely to certain intelligence elements. The parcels they sent were generic in appearance, no indication of their origin. Any necessary instructions printed on the packages inside were in French, Spanish, Italian, English, German, Portuguese, Chinese Mandarin, Chinese Cantonese, Japanese, Vietnamese, Arabic, Hebrew and Filipino. No brand names or logos were in evidence, thus even the most determined investigator would not be able to trace them back to any particular country or source.

  At a signal from Reverend Borden, several men came forward and began picking up the bundles, carrying them to the large meeting hail where the rest of the villagers happily waited. The people were ecstatic. After months of deprivation and the failed crops of the large vegetable gardens, they could now eat and replant. The clothing would replace their torn and worn garments, the tools would be used for the new planting, and the medical supplies, while rudimentary, would help with the treatment of minor injuries. The insect repellent was most welcome, as Borden's followers had been plagued mercilessly by mosquitoes since their first day in the Gran Chaco.

  When all the cargo was neatly stacked under the thatched roof, Alfredo waited as the villagers gathered around them. When he had their undivided attention, he spoke to them in his fluent Spanish.

  "Buena gente del pueblo de Caridad," he began. "We are happy to bring you these items to relieve your suffering and discomfort. We do this gladly but ask some favors of you in exchange for the gifts. You must never--nuncareveal where these packages and boxes came from. Comprenden? You must not tell anyone of the presence of Americans in this area. They have come here to destroy a band of very bad men who wish to enslave not only you but a great part of South America under a very cruel leader they call el generalisimo. The Americans do not want you to have to fight these bad men. They do not want you to be in any sort of danger. What they ask is that you simply observe what is going on around here. If you see the bad men, make note of the date, time and what they were doing. The Americans will come here now and then to gather this information as well as bring you more things that you need to make your village and farms grow. Also, if it is necessary, the Americans may ask you to temporarily take care of their wounded and sick. Or perhaps to offer them a hiding place under certain circumstances. They might even ask you to run errands for them in places were they cannot go."

  Alfredo paused to light a cigarette, glancing at the crowd to judge their reception of his words. They seemed delighted to cooperate, and he felt the SEALs now had some good friends in the Gran Chaco.

  "Ya!" he said, exhaling smoke. "Let us pass out these gifts to the people. El reverendo Borden will supervise the distribution."

  Borden and a trio of his senior assistants formed the people by family groups into a long line to issue the food. Milly Mills stood beside Alfredo, watching as the rice and other staples were doled out. After a few minutes, a woman carrying a child in her arms came to Alfredo and spoke to him softly in a pleading voice. The CIA operative turned to Milly.

  "This woman's child is sick with a bad fever," Alfredo explained. "She wants to know if there's anything you can do."

  "There sure as hell is," Milly said. "The Navy's best hospital corpsman is back with our Command Element." He pulled out the handset of his AN/PRC-126 and pressed the transmit button. "Brigand, this is Charlie. Over."

  .

  HEADQUARTERS, GRUPO DE BATALLA

  CAMPAMENTO ASTRAY

  1400 HOURS LOCAL

  SUBOFICIAL Adolfo Punzarron stood by the door of the EC-635 light utility chopper as his patrol of six riflemen climbed aboard. The rotors of the aircraft were spinning, and when Punzarron pulled himself into the troop compartment, the pilot kicked up the engine to take off. As soon as he was at 300 meters' altitude, he turned toward the southwest.

  Intelligence gathered from the
cattlemen of Novida indicated that this was the area where the mysterious invaders had been appearing from time to time. These antagonists, who seemed phantomlike, had the uncanny ability to appear and disappear at will. The command and staff of the Ejercito Falangista had decided it was time for violent contact with the elusive foe. Thus, Punzarron was now on his way to accomplish that goal.

  As the helicopter sped over the Gran Chaco, the suboficial studied his map, matching it with the features on the ground. The chart, like others of that area, was inaccurate with misjudged distances, missed topographical features, and out-of-date references in the legends on the map's outer edge. Punzarron angrily shoved it back into the side pocket of his uniform trousers.

  The flight continued for twenty minutes before reaching its destination. The nose of the aircraft was raised, and it went into a hover for a moment before lowering until its skids touched the grassy terrain. Punzarron leaped out and sprinted a dozen meters away from the door with his men following. He waited until the chopper took off for the return flight to Campamento Astray before forming up his troops in a single rank facing him. These were some of the men he had whipped into shape using his methods of the Spanish Foreign Legion. Consequently, they were tough, confident and able to endure almost any situation they might encounter while campaigning in the field.

  "Oigan!" he barked. "Listen up! I want you to remember that we are out here for one reason and one reason only. Buscamos conflictos--we're looking for trouble. If we run across any of those outsiders we are to engage them in combat at the first opportunity. The primary mission is to kill all of them. The secondary mission is to get some prisoners. I prefer the primary. I will take the point, and you will form into a single file behind me. Even-numbered men will maintain watch on the right, odd numbers take the left. The last man will watch our rear. Any questions? Good. Siguenme'