by Jack Terral
An older cabo, who had been broken in rank in the Argentine Army for getting drunk and driving a truck into the front of the officers' club, sniffed the air. "That is thermite, mi capitan."
"How the hell did thermite get down in those chingaderas mortars?" Platas roared.
"We don't even have white phosphorous shells in our inventory," the sargento pointed out. "I cannot see how anything untoward like this could have happened."
No one said anything for a moment as they all realized that one or more of the phantom norteamericanos had entered their bivouac while all were asleep. Platas hung his head in abject misery.
"I must radio the generalisimo and tell him we have no more mortar support."
.
BETWEEN THE LINES
0430 HOURS LOCAL
A mountain seems twice as steep going up it than comning down, and Redhawk's thigh muscles burned with the effort as he ascended the slope back toward the detachment perimeter. He moved diagonally across the high ground, changing to the opposite direction now and then as he planted his feet firmly before stepping upward.
Then, as before, another rustling of vegetation caught his attention. He wondered if it was the little guy he had seen earlier. This disturbance however, was not quite so loud. It was more like a whisk sound of somebody brushing up against a low-hanging branch of a tree. He ducked down and waited. Within moments four Falangists, stripped down for action, appeared to his direct front. They moved efficiently through the undergrowth, showing no signs of fatigue.
Redhawk could see them well. They were hard-core dudes toting submachine guns. He surmised they were a small patrol that could either be out for reconnaissance or combat purposes. The badass quartet looked like they could do some serious damage if they set their minds to it.
The SEAL waited until they passed, then he moved on.
.
THE SEAL PERIMETER
0450 HOURS LOCAL
THE dawn of the long summer day was beginning to turn the night's blackness into a misty grayness when Red-hawk approached the south side of the perimeter. He spoke *in a whisper into his LASH. "Hey, you Second Section guys, this is Redhawk. I'm approaching the perimeter."
Gutsy Olson's voice came over the system. "Okay, Red-hawk. Did you bring any coffee and doughnuts with you?"
"Sorry," Redhawk said, moving toward the perimeter. "The take-out places around here suck." He reached the apex of the mountain and walked between the positions manned by Gutsy and Wes Ferguson. "You don't have to sweat the mortars anymore."
"Thank God for small favors," Wes said.
Redhawk crossed the middle of the defensive area going straight to Lieutenant Wild Bill Brannigan's CP. The Skipper was cooking some MRE chili con carne in an FRH as the Brigand walked up. Redhawk pulled the leftover thermite grenade off his vest and set it down. "I got one left over."
"Your efficiency boggles the mind," Brannigan remarked.
"There was only three of 'em, sir," Redhawk said. "I didn't stick around to do any more damage, although it was a piece of cake. They didn't even have a sentry posted. I could've put this final grenade in the ammo, but the explosions would have alerted anyone within a hundred kilometers. Anyhow, it was certain them guys weren't expecting any unwanted visitors."
"Complacency will always fuck you up in a combat situation," Brannigan said. He dug his spoon into the chili. "Did you see anything interesting while you were out and about?'
"Yes, sir," Redhawk answered. "On the way down I saw this little bitty guy carrying a big rucksack. He was a Falangist for sure, but I can't quite figure out what he was doing wandering around in the jungle in the dead of night.
On the way back there was a four-man patrol that crossed my path. These guys looked like they knew what they were doing. But they weren't moving toward the perimeter. Instead, they headed to the west."
"Probably a recon patrol," Brannigan surmised. "Did you find the enemy machine guns?"
"Negative, sir. They must be farther up the mountain somewhere."
"No doubt," Brannigan said. "Okay, Redhawk. Well done. You can report back to Chief Gunnarson."
"Is it okay if I look in on Pech, sir?"
"Sure."
It began to rain as Redhawk walked toward James Bradley's treatment area.
.
0600 HOURS LOCAL
THE rain fell heavily, splattering off leaves and dripping down toward the ground as Coronel Jeronimo Busch led his equipo comando through the brush. All four men were soaking wet, more from the water on the trees and brush than from the downpour, as they slowly worked their way upward toward the enemy position in the southwest portion of the battlefield.
The unexpected storm gave them a perfect opportunity to launch a quick daylight surprise attack without having problems with sound. After inflicting casualties on the enemy's line, they could quickly withdraw farther down the mountain before turning to set up an impromptu defense.
The Falangists were in a close-packed skirmish line with Chaubere in the lead. He suddenly came to a halt, whispering a warning over the LASH to the others. He had caught a fleeting glimpse of one of the Yanquis through the brush ahead. Busch quickly worked his way over to take a look. "Escuchen--listen!" he said. "Close in on Chaubere and me. Hurry!"
Punzarron and Muller quickly complied, crowding together with the other two. Busch pointed ahead. They all glanced in that direction for a moment, then saw the Yanqui appear momentarily. He disappeared from view, but it was obvious he had not moved from the position.
"Fire on my command," the coronel said. "One long burst each."
Now four submachine guns were aimed at the exact spot they had sighted the norteamericano.
"Tiren--Fire!"
.
WES Ferguson shook under the impact of the automatic fire, twisting in his fighting position before slumping to the ground. Guy Devereaux and Joe Miskoski quickly returned a salvo in the direction of the incoming. After a couple of beats it was obvious the attackers had headed back down the mountain in the rain.
Guy hurried over to Wes, rolling him over for an examination. Most of his face was shot away, and his right arm was almost blown off between the shoulder and elbow. Joe and Senior Chief Buford Dawkins joined him.
"Oh, man," Joe said softly.
"Let's put him on his poncho and wrap him up," Dawkins said in a low voice. He spoke into the LASH. "Mills, Olson, Malachenko! You guys stick to your positions."
Brannigan came over from the CP and looked down at the dead SEAL. "Godamn it! You've got to be doubly alert when it's raining. That's when those bastards are going to launch these sneak attacks. Pass the word, Senior Chief!"
"Aye, sir," Dawkins replied.
"Put him in the ground," Brannigan ordered.
The Skipper walked back toward the CP as Guy and Joe began digging a grave with their entrenching tools. Joe worked methodically with the small shovel. "Wild Bill must think we're gonna be here for awhile."
"Maybe he figures we ain't ever getting off this fucking mountain," Guy remarked.
Chapter 18
THE SELVA VERDE MOUNTAINS
THE BATTLE
16 JANUARY
GENERALISIMO Jose Maria de Castillo y Plato began the violent proceedings by ordering a coordinated attack on all sides of the mountain defenses held by the Yanquis. The Falangists moved from their attack positions, holding their skirmish formations as well as they could while struggling against both the steepness of the mountain and the heavy vegetation that seemed to reach out and grab at them.
Less than a quarter of an hour later, the first contacts were made, and numerous firefights broke out all over the mountain. The detonation of hand grenades blasted within the rat-tat-tat sounds of rifle and machine gun fire. At this preliminary portion of the battle, no casualties were suffered by either side, but the combatants moved around a bit to find more advantageous positions to inflict punishment on each other.
* * *
THE fighting fla
red up heavier first on the east side of the battlefield. Comandante Gustavo Cappuzzo and Capitan Roberto Argento led the attack by example, going to the front of their men, pumping out fire bursts with their submachine guns. The Falangists cheered, and a footrace of sorts broke out as they all attempted to catch up with their senior officers.
The Second Assault Section under Senior Chief Petty Officer Buford Dawkins bitterly resisted the assault. Joe Miskoski's SAW spat streams of rounds that swept along the entire front while the riflemen of the team used three-round automatic bursts between tossing grenades down on the attackers. A couple of Falangists who managed to run past Cappuzzo and Argento paid with their lives for their recklessness. Now the enemy formation tightened up, getting low in the brush to exchange shots with the norteamericanos.
Andy Malachenko spotted an opportunity for a one-man assault when a Falangist to his front pulled back. Andy bounded from his fighting hole and ran a few paces down the mountain before throwing himself into a thick tangle of shrubs. He'd no sooner began pumping rounds at the enemy to the front when Joe and Guy Devereaux joined him. All three put out heavy overlapping salvos that finally broke the back of the enemy attack. As the Falangists withdrew to regroup, the three SEALs quickly returned to the perimeter. They found Milly Mills putting a compress on a slight wound from a shrapnel fragment in his right deltoid muscle. Milly was more pissed off than hurt. "I'd've been out there with you fuckers, but one of those bastards tossed a grenade at me:'
"Well, ol' buddy," Joe said. "The next time the son of a bitches come this way, you just toss one right back at 'em."
"Yeah?" Milly said sarcastically. "I was already planning on doing that very thing."
north side of the perimeter. Comandante Javier Toledo and Capital! Francisco Silber were using a closely coordinated tactic of basic fire-and-maneuver to get in close to the SEAL position. After laying down a final fusillade, the Falangists leaped to their feet and charged into the perimeter with wild yells.
Hand-to-hand fighting broke out as the two lines collided. All the combatants were wielding rifle butts and bayonets while bellowing at the top of their lungs. Garth Redhawk even threw a wild left cross that sent a Falangist to the ground. Nobody was shooting during the melee of trying to club, kick, punch and stab each other until Mike Assad caught a nasty butt stroke to his chest from a burly Chilean sargento. He staggered backward, firing instinctively just as he hit the ground. This stimulated fresh bursts of shooting until the Falangists, still in the direct front of the perimeter, had to break off and pull back. They left the body of one comrade behind as the SEALs settled back into their fighting holes, cutting loose several salvos at the fleeing enemy. These mostly smacked into tree trunks.
.
GORDO Pullini and his gang stumbled uncertainly forward with the submachine guns of Capitan Pablo Gonzales at their backs. Their firing was miserably inadequate as they worked the bolts of the old Mauser rifles with each shot. After twenty minutes of the frustrating work, the firing from above suddenly increased. With bullets zinging around their heads and knocking spinning chunks of bark off the trees, the convicts turned and ran until they once again came upon Gonzales.
"You miserable scum!" the capitan screamed at them. "Turn around and get back up that hill, or you'll die here this moment!"
The convicts slowly turned around but did not move until the submachine guns were fired over their heads as warning shots. "Ya vamanos, muchachos!" Pullini yelled. "Let's go, boys!"
They stumbled over their dead as they once again scrambled up the slope. Now the original two dozen were down to eighteen.
.
PETTY Officer First Class Gutsy Olson was the only SEAL on the south side of the perimeter. He had been stationed there to give the alarm in case the Falangists launched an attack from that direction. Although this had not happened, incoming machine gun fire splattered all around him as the enemy crews farther down the mountain sent numerous grazing fusillades onto the apex.
Suddenly a spent round struck Gutsy just above his right eye, cutting a gash. The wound immediately began, swelling, and his vision blurred as he wrapped a field compress around his head. After tying it off as tight as possible, he settled down to hang in tough, wishing he had an ice pack to put on his eye.
.
1400 HOURS LOCAL
GUTSY'S vision was cleared, but his right eye was swollen completely shut. He had an old-fashioned shiner, looking like somebody had delivered a haymaker to his head during a barroom brawl. By then the machine gun fire had come to a stop, and no more rounds zapped into the immediate area, but he had to stay in his fighting hole since he didn't want to be caught in the open if the automatic weapons renewed their plunging salvos.
He kept his CAR-15 ready to fire as he peered into the jungle to make sure no attackers or infiltrators tried to penetrate the perimeter on that side. He was aware of the mysterious hit-and-run tactics that had occurred on the lines during the fighting, but the raiders seemed to be avoiding the south side. Gutsy yawned with nervous boredom as the shooting and detonations went off around the other parts of the defensive position. He had never felt so lonely in his life.
A figure suddenly emerged into view at his direct front.
A small man, walking unsteadily, moved through the jungle from west to east. The guy had a rucksack on his back, looking as if he were out for no more than a hike. However, the Falangist insignia was visible on his sleeve, so Gutsy took his weapon to his shoulder and carefully aimed.
Then Shorty changed direction and went from east to west.
Gutsy decided the guy had to be either looking for something or was lost. And he wasn't carrying a rifle. The SEAL watched for a moment more, then yelled, "Halt!"
Shorty stopped and turned toward him, raising his hands. "I quit! I no fight! I quit!"
"Come up here real slow, Shorty," Gutsy said. He waited as the guy moved up toward the perimeter, then the SEAL spoke into his LASH. "Hey, Senior Chief! I got an EPW!"
.
1430 HOURS L0CAL
LIEUTENANT Wild Bill Brannigan paid scant attention to the sounds of scattered shots as he gazed down at the little guy sitting on the ground in front of him. The EPW had military equipment and wore a uniform, but it was obvious as hell he wasn't a soldier. Or if he was a member of some armed forces, he had been misassigned to a combat unit instead an outfit like a mess kit repair battalion where he should have been.
Brannigan glared at him. "I'm think you're a spy."
"I don't unnerstan'," Ignacio Perez said with a hopeful smile. "No more fight. I quit. Oh, yes!"
"We found a lot of papers and computer disks in your rucksack," Brannigan said. "What are they all about?"
"I quit. No more fight:'
"Shit!" Brannigan said. He spoke into the LASH. "Chief Gunnarson, send Gomez back here to the Command Element."
Frank Gomez came trotting up less than a minute later. He started to report to Brannigan but caught sight of the prisoner. "Who the hell is he?"
"He's somebody that Olson captured," Brannigan said. "He doesn't speak English, so ask him who the hell he is and where he comes from. I also want to know about the stuff in his rucksack."
"Aye, sir," Frank said. He knelt down beside the EPW and began talking to him. After an exchange that went on for five minutes, Frank stood up. "Sir, he says his name is Ignacio Perez, and he's a warrant officer in the Falangist Army. The guy wants to defect and says that he worked as the adjutant for the generalisimo."
"That must be that Castillo guy they told us about in Isolation," Brannigan said.
"Yes, sir," Frank replied. "And he says the papers and computer disks in his rucksack are secret intelligence and operational documents of the Falangists. They include the names of special contacts those guys have in the Bolivian, Argentine and Chilean armies."
"Jesus!" Brannigan exclaimed, having trouble believing that such good luck had occurred. "Find out why he defected."
After another conversatio
n with Ignacio, Frank said, "He wants to get the hell away from the Falangists. He was hijacked out of the Spanish Foreign Legion where he was serving in lieu of a prison sentence. He is hoping he will be allowed to go to America."
"Give one of those documents a read and tell me what it says:' Brannigan ordered.
Frank reached in Ignacio's rucksack and pulled out a folder. He flipped it open and read the top page. "This one here lists the names of Chilean intelligence officers that are either sympathetic or belong to the Falangist movement."
"Gomez," Brannigan said in a steady voice in spite of his excitement, "get on that fucking Shadowfire radio and raise Matrix. Tell them what's come stumbling up the mountains to us."
"Aye, sir!"
Frank went to the radio and flipped it on. After getting Matrix and going through the authentication procedure, he informed the CIA operator of what had unexpectedly transpired in the Selva Verde Mountains.
Ignacio, now sure that things were going his way, smiled.
.
FALANGIST LINES
EASTERN SIDE
1830 HOURS L0CAL
THE original convict contingent from the penitentiary in Patagonia were now down to thirteen from the original twenty-four. The poorly armed men had made constant attacks with submachine guns at their backs and were now so desperate some considered simply getting it over with quicker by refusing to move up the mountain again. It seemed better to die without further fear and exhaustion.
Capitan Pablo Gonzales recognized that they were almost at a breaking point. It would do nothing for the Falangist cause to shoot them down below the mountaintop rather than forcing them to die at the enemy's line of defense. He ordered a stand down, pulling them farther back and giving them a chance to rest, eat and get their emotions under control. The convicts were taken to a glade and allowed to get off their feet. Their wardens, however, still kept the muzzles of their submachine guns on them. Several of the prisoners thought they would be s this point but saw no hope in resistance. They simply sank to the soft jungle ground to wait whatever fate had destined for them.
