by Jack Terral
"We are close to the front lines now," Busch said. "Chaubere and Muller, move to my right. Punzarron, take the left." He waited for them to get into position. "Now we go upward and make contact. The moment you sight the enemy, give them heavy bursts, and we will pull back. Ya vamanos--let's go!"
The quartet of veterans now eased forward, alert and ready with the knowledge they would find the Yanquis within a very short time. The brush was dense enough in the area that they could move without crouching over. After a couple of minutes, Sargento-Mayor Armand Chaubere sighted a figure in a camouflage uniform just to his right. The man was only partially visible, but the Frenchman saw enough to react.
He pumped a long burst, a short burst and a long burst from his submachine gun.
* * *
LAMAR Taylor took a hit in the shoulder, two in the chest, and fourth that plowed into his face, exiting out the back of his head in a spray of brains, bone fragments and blood.
Paulo Cinzento and Chad Murchison immediately shifted their fire toward the source of the incoming, pouring interlocking streams of bullets. When there was no return fire, Chad crawled rapidly toward Lamar to check him out. When he reached his buddy, he winced at the extent of the damage. At least Lamar died instantaneously without having to go through the hell of settling into shock before expiring. Chad's voice was low with grief when he spoke to Chief Petty Officer Matt Gunnarson over the LASH. "Lamar's KIA, Chief."
"Shit," Matt said. He grabbed the radio handset. "Brigand, this is Brigand One. Taylor is KIA."
A stab of anguish went through the Skipper's heart, but he maintained a tight lid on his emotions. "Brigand Two, this is Brigand. Send Gomez over to the First Section."
Senior Chief Buford Dawkins quickly obeyed, passing the word to the detachment's commo man. Frank left his firing position to sprint across the middle of the perimeter and report in to Matt for assignment.
"Taylor bought the farm," the chief petty officer said. "You can take his place with Murchison and Cinzento."
Frank wordlessly moved over to the position, finding Chad beside Lamar's body. Chad looked up at the new arrival. "Let's pull him back a ways, Frank. He's in the way here."
"Sure."
They each grabbed an arm and dragged Lamar five meters back into the brush, then Frank went up to the position the dead SEAL had occupied at the time of his death. The leaves of the nearby brush were splattered with blood.
* * *
CAPITAN Tomas Platas studied the sketch map given him by the helicopter pilot Subalterno Ernesto Pizzaro. The young officer had assured him that the azimuths and distances shown were accurate. Platas took the trouble to make one more inspection of the three machine guns' positions, then he got on his RMAM radio. The Falangist commo net was simple enough. Each element commander was linked directly to Generalisimo Castillo, who used the call sign Mando.
"Mando," Platas said. "This is Fuego. The machine guns are in position now. The mortars are also ready. A usted."
Castillo came back with short but explicit instructions. "Tire--fire!"
.
A sudden influx of incoming automatic fire swept across the south side of the SEAL perimeter. The heavy grazing salvos forced Milly Mills, Gutsy Olson and Wes Ferguson to hunker down in their fighting holes. The sweeping volleys crisscrossed as they pounded into the position.
"What the hell's going on over there?" Dawkins asked via the LASH.
"There's a machine gun squad down the mountain somewhere," Milly Mills replied. "They're sweeping the area with grazing fire. We're pinned down but good."
"Any assault?"
"Negative, Senior Chief," Milly said. "Just heavy incoming?'
"Keep your heads down," Dawkins said. He got on the radio and informed Brannigan of the situation.
Brannigan quickly mulled over what was going on; lots of shooting but no assault. "They may not have enough manpower to launch an attack on that side," he said to Dawkins. "But we can't tell for sure at this point. Telly our guys to stay undercover. Out."
Brannigan had no sooner replaced the handset in its carrier than the first mortar rounds rained down on the east side of the perimeter.
.
FALANGIST FIELD HEADQUARTERS
1900 HOURS LOCAL
THE battle had ground down to a struggle of attrition.
Whoever outlasted the other would win, and Generalisimo Castillo was confident the victor would be him and his Falangist forces. The enemy was both contained and outnumbered, and that always counted as 90 percent of a victory. The only thing he had to do from this point on was keep up the pressure without sustaining too many casualties.
Although the helicopter FLIR patrols confirmed the enemy strength at some nineteen men or so, and he outnumbered them by at least a four-to-one advantage, he had to fight a conservative and cautious battle. If he had more men he would damn the losses and overwhelm the Yanquis with one massive attack. But reinforcements were trickling in too slowly to risk losing men that might be needed in the near future.
The mortars were now zeroed in perfectly on the top of the mountain. Although the battery didn't have a plethora of ammunition, there were enough 60-millimeter shells that even with slow, steady barrages the enemy positions would be obliterated eventually.
That would force the comandante Yanqui to either be blown to hell, make an impossible attempt to break out, or wisely surrender.
Castillo wondered what choice his adversary would make.
Chapter 17
THE SELVA VERDE MOUNTAINS
FALANGIST FIRE SUPPORT ECHELON
14 JANUARY
2200 HOURS LOCAL
THE fighting had died down, and only occasional shots could be heard across the mountain battlefield. Each side showed patience and restraint, preferring to wait for the other guy to make a move, then respond to it. As is normal in such cases, a tension permeated the area in invisible vibrations that each combatant picked up. It was a time of nervousness and a strong sense of apprehension. Pessimism was a clear winner over optimism.
Suboficial Ignacio Perez had quietly moved off to a secluded spot east of the mortars. He had grown to like his bunker office at Fuerte Franco, and now he missed it. The heavy, fortified ceiling and the thick walls gave him a feeling of safety and security. Now he sat in a small clearing surrounded by thick brush. It was a poor substitute for the earthen protection he had in the Centro de Administracion.
He had grown hungry and fixed a hurried meal of onion soup dissolved in cold water in his canteen cup. He drank the mixture slowly, not minding that it wasn't hot as he enjoyed the tangy taste. The food was from his French ration de campagne, and he thought it typical of that country to have special flavoring in food that was to be consumed in the primitive conditions of field operations.
Ignacio could hear the gunners talking, though he was too far away to discern what they were actually saying. The generalisimo seemed confident of a victory over the enemy he referred to as bandidos. Ignacio noted that the other Falangists were not so convinced of administering a nasty defeat, even though they outnumbered the norteamericanos. The experience on the Rio Ancho when the enemy made the escape during the rainstorm had shaken the morale of the troops. The enemy had gone right through their lines carrying boats! It was thought they might have other tricks up their sleeves. Perhaps they expected strong reinforcements at any time or air support from an aircraft carrier. Maybe an entire battalion of paratroopers would come in from the sky to help them in the battle.
Ignacio may have been an accountant by profession, but now he had been around the military long enough to be sure the Americans would not be defeated. The reports he had read and filed of the various ambushes they sprang on the Falangists showed an extremely skillful enemy who seemed to move at will anywhere they wished to go. For his own safety and well-being in life, he must somehow figure out a way to reach them. He knew it would be dangerous in this combat situation, but he had no choice; there was no opportunity for him to retur
n to a peaceful life in his native land of Spain. His sentencing to the Foreign Legion in lieu of a prison sentence, then deserting to the Falangist cause, was a guarantee of never finding mercy or forgiveness within that justice system. He was sure the information he had in his rucksack would earn him a reward, perhaps permission to immigrate to the United States. He could speak a little English from studying the language during his school days. If he could-
The sudden firing of a barrage by the mortar battery interrupted his thoughts.
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THE SEAL PERIMETER
THE incoming HE shells burst mostly in the trees, sending shrapnel and large steel splinters whirling downward toward the fighting positions. Now and then one of the 60-millimeter rounds would slip through small branches and hit the ground, throwing up dirt clods, smoke and chunks of white-hot metal. Each separate detonation let out a single brilliant flash of light that disappeared in an instant.
A nearby explosion rocked the Second Section, and Pech Pecheur felt a sharp blow to his thigh that was followed by a numbness going through his entire left leg. "Shit!" he said instinctively, "I been hit!" The words went through the LASH system.
Andy Malachenko damned the shelling as he rolled from his fighting hole to crawl rapidly over to Pech's position. "Pech needs a corpsman," he said, as he joined the wounded SEAL. Andy pulled Pech's field dressing from his combat vest and wasted no time in wrapping it around the injured leg. He pulled it as tight as he could. "How're you doing, Pech?"
Pech grimaced. "I guess I'm all right."
A moment later James Bradley raced up from his run across the perimeter in answer to Senior Chief Dawkins's radio message. Luckily, the barrage had halted, and he was able to help Andy drag the wounded man out of the hole where he would be easier to examine. James found a deep wound in the left thigh that could well include a broken bone.
"Give me a hand getting him back to my aid station, Andy," James said.
They were as gentle as they could be as they cradled their buddy between them. It was awkward going during the short trek across the perimeter to the Command Element position, but they did their best not to shake their wounded buddy too much. When the pair arrived, they moved Pech in next to Connie Concord.
James wasted no time in getting to work on his newest patient. After getting Pech into a comfortable position, he put a tourniquet on the leg just above the wound, then removed the field dressing. A few deft snips with the scissors from the medical kit opened up the pant leg to allow access to the jagged gash from the shrapnel.
After administering fifty milligrams of tetracaine as a local anesthetic, James began the debridement procedure of removing foreign matter and dead tissue from the wound. He scraped and cut, cleaning out the injury as much possible under the crude, unsanitary conditions. He was glad to note there was no broken bone, thus no splinters left to complicate matters. With this done, he would leave the wound open for proper draining.
After the injection of a tetanus shot, James turned to preventive treatment for infection. Pech would be immobile for quite awhile before it was time for a redebridement and the closing of the wound.
Brannigan came over when he noted that James had finished with the preliminary work. Pech looked up with an apologetic look. "Sorry about this, sir."
"You just concentrate on healing up," Brannigan said. He walked back to his bare-bones CP and picked up the handset of the AN/PRC-126. "Brigand Two, this is Brigand. How many mortars do you estimate are shelling us? Over."
"Three or four," Senior Chief Dawkins replied. "They don't seem to be overly supplied with ammo. I came to that conclusion from their short barrages. But they can still fuck us up. Over."
"Send Redhawk over to me. Out."
Garth Redhawk came in out of the dark, squatting down beside Brannigan. "The senior chief says you want to see me, sir."
"Right," Brannigan said. "These mortars are going to start taking us out steadily one at a time. As long as they maintain even this slow rate, they're not going to need much more than another twelve hours before we'll all be casualties."
Redhawk showed a rare grin. "Somebody ought to go down the mountain and knock them fuckers out, sir."
Brannigan grinned back. "Do you think you can take the time to tend to that little matter?"
"My social calendar is completely cleared for the next few hours."
"Okay," Brannigan said, turning businesslike. "The best way is to drop thermite grenades down the tubes. You'll have to avoid sentries, get in there undetected and do the job. Then you make a quick exit and get the hell out before they realize their heavy weapons are melting."
"Aye, sir," Redhawk said. "How many of them grenades do I need?"
"Take four," Brannigan said. "And nothing else except your CAR-15 and whatever you can carry in your vest. You got to be a lean, mean, mortar-destroying machine."
"I understand, sir," Redhawk said. "I'll be ready to go as soon as I shuck most of this shit I got strapped on me."
Brannigan walked over to the ammunition hole to get the grenades while Redhawk stripped for action.
.
FALANGIST FIRE SUPPORT ECHELON
15 JANUARY
0001 HOURS LOCAL
IGNACIO Perez had spent the entire evening concealed in the small clearing he had discovered. All his gear was ready for a quick exit. His pistol belt and holster were fastened around his potbelly, his Foreign Legion garrison cap was on his head, and he sat on the rucksack that had only to be picked up and slipped over his bony shoulders.
After several long moments of listening to determine no one was in the near vicinity, Ignacio got to his feet. He stood motionless for a final short period of tuning his ear into the near environment, then slipped his night vision goggles on. Now he looked out through the brush and could see that the entire mortar group was asleep. There wasn't even a guard posted. He quietly struggled into his rucksack and stepped out into the jungle, immediately heading east.
After pushing his way through the vegetation for three hundred or so meters, he abruptly turned north to head directly for the American positions.
.
BETWEEN THE LINES
0200 HOURS LOCAL
GARTH Redhawk moved carefully down the jungle mountain, watching his step not only for the purposes of stealth but to be careful of the four thermite grenades he had attached to his combat vest. The environment of thick vegetation looked strange through his night vision goggles, at times becoming a muddled view of green and white spots and splotches.
He eased down a small gulley and just reached the bottom when a nearby noise startled him. The Native American immediately dropped into a crouch. The noise repeated, and the sound of someone breathing hard could now be heard. Redhawk raised up just enough to be able to peer over the palm brush to his front. To his surprise he saw the figure of a diminutive man struggling under the weight of a rucksack. The fellow wore a night vision device yet seemed to be having trouble with his footing. After a few more moments of observing him, the SEAL saw the man's problem was that he was near exhaustion.
Even more strange was the fact the little guy was stumbling toward the Brigands' defensive perimeter. Redhawk was out of LASH range and couldn't warn the guys up on the line. However, the infiltrator or whatever he was made enough noise to wake the dead. He'd be blasted to mincemeat before he got within fifteen meters of the SEALs' positions. Either that or he'd drop dead from a heart attack first.
After Shorty passed on by, Redhawk rose to continue on his way.
.
FALANGIST FIRE SUPPORT ECHELON
0330 H0URS LOCAL
THE edge of the clearing offered an excellent view of the mortar positions just a short distance away. Garth Red-hawk noted the three heavy weapons with the covers over the tubes, all aligned on the same azimuth. Behind them were three stacks of ammunition boxes, aiming stakes, and other gear neatly arranged in exactly the same manner to the rear of the firing positions. It was all very soldierly an
d very professional.
The SEAL spent a few moments checking out the situation. Some shelter halves were pitched a ways from the battery, and the glowing embers of fires that had been used during the day could still be easily discerned. That, and the fact that there was no sentry posted, gave a very strong indication that here was an outfit that felt they were completely out of harm's way.
Not! the SEAL thought to himself with a grin.
Redhawk slung his CAR-15 and eased out of the jungle, treading lightly over to the mortars. The first thing he did was go to each one and remove the muzzle cov the last one was off, he took a thermite grenade off his vest, pulled the pin and dropped it down the tube. He quickly went to the next two, performing the same action in a swift, sure manner. With that done, he left the clearing, slipping back into the jungle for the trek back to the perimeter.
Inside the tubes the grenades' thermite fillers began their forty-second burns. The resulting temperature of 4,300 degrees Fahrenheit changed the filler into molten iron that flowed from the canister. The innards of the mortar tubes ignited and fused, turning into liquid metal.
.
CA PITA N Tomas Platas slept soundly in his tent. He dreamed of his hometown of Trinidad in Bolivia, and he was walking down the street going to his parents' house. As he plodded along La Avenida de la Revolucion, he heard a strange hissing sound. It began to grow louder and louder until he suddenly woke up.
He sat up, noticing an acrid smell, then saw a glow so bright it showed through the canvas of the tent. The officer crawled out into the open and stood up. The bright light, now casting a daylight quality over the area, was coming from the mortars. By now others were climbing from their shelters to see what the hell was happening.
Everyone rushed to the weapons to see them slumping down like melting candle wax. One doubled over and fell on its base plate. The two parts were immediately welded together.
Platas turned to the senior sargento, screaming at him. "What did you do? Why are our mortars on fire?"
The sargento could only shrug. "I have no idea what is going on, mi capitan!"
