When they married, Isabella was able to quit her job, and Ignacio was now convinced that between the affection, support and security he provided, she would indeed be a faithful, happy wife. But after only six months she began complaining about the size of the apartment, her spending allowance, their few evenings out and the fact that she couldn't buy the best clothes or visit the most expensive beauty salons.
She left him once, coming back only after he promised to raise their standard of living. Ignacio was so helplessly and hopelessly in love that he began to cook the books at work just a bit for the cash to satisfy his self-centered, demanding wife. He was able to easily pull in an extra 50 euros a week. This was fine for awhile, but her insatiable desires for expensive things grew until he was desperately sifting out amounts that climbed upwards to 250 euros several times a month.
Then an unannounced audit occurred at the factory.
Actually, Ignacio wasn't surprised, since he figured that somewhere down the line someone was noticing the growing discrepancies in his books. The miscreant accountant was arrested at work and taken out by a pair of large policemen while his coworkers looked on in horror and revulsion. The news of his crime was in all the newspapers and on television. Ignacio Perez was disgraced and humiliated. He knew the moment he was roughly shoved into the jail cell that he had lost everything: his dignity, reputation, and Isabella.
The trial was conveniently short, since he admitted everything and threw himself on the mercy of the court.
The judge noted the circumstances that drove him to the crime as well as the fact he had never been in trouble with the law before. But embezzling 200,000 euros was a serious offense, even if it was a first one, and called for a sentence of ten to fifteen years. However, because of his clean prior record, Ignacio was given the choice between the penitentiary or three years in the Spanish Foreign Legion. He chose the Legion.
He should have taken prison.
Ignacio Perez simply could not adapt to a brutal military environment. Punches, kicks from the cabos and sargentos, along with weeks as an arrestado in the labor units, did nothing to help him become a better soldier. No matter how much Ignacio applied himself, he couldn't fire his rifle accurately, fold his clothes properly to be placed in his locker, shine his boots bright enough, or properly carry out the myriad other maddening tasks demanded of him. But finally, after enduring six months of hell, somebody took note of the fact that he was a former accountant and could read, write, and even type. These were rare qualities in the Legion, and he was taken away from line companies and field soldiering to be transferred to headquarters as an administrative clerk.
Ignacio's expertise in paperwork was so good that he was even made a cabo to give him some authority in dealing with problems that arose in the staff bureaucracy. The poor little fellow felt better now, sure that he could finish out his three-year enlistment, then go to the Canary Islands, where no one knew him, and begin a new life.
But Coronel Jose Maria Castillo y Plato, the regimental commander, pulled him out of headquarters to work in his office typing up his fascist manifesto. Ignacio thought the man mad, and the more he worked on the fascist philosophy, the more nervous he became in the coronel's presence. When Castillo left the legion, Ignacio was not asked if he wanted to go with him to become embroiled in an international military coup. Nor were any inquiries regarding his opinion of fascism. Castillo simply appointed the diminutive clerk a personal adjutant, warranted him a suboficial, and dragged him off to South America. From that point on, he not only had a criminal record, he was a deserter from the Spanish Army.
Now Ignacio was alone and isolated in the wilds of the Gran Chaco, trying to figure out how to get out of this new trouble and find freedom and peace once again. The next time he saw a cheap slattern, he would know enough to avoid her like the boot of an angry sargento.
He downed the glass of brandy, refilled it and drank deeply again.
.
ABOVE THE LOZANO GRASSLANDS
PETROLEO COLMO AEROSPATIALE GAZELLE HELICOPTER
1100 HOURS LOCAL
THE small red aircraft flew slowly across the savannah's expanse at an altitude of 750 meters. In the passenger seats behind the pilot, the CIA operative Alfredo sat with Dr. Carl Joplin of the U. S. State Department. The two, wearing intercom headsets, gazed pensively down at the flat terrain below them.
Joplin turned his eyes toward his companion. "So you're disappointed in the intelligence you gleaned from the young Bolivian officer, are you?"
"Disappointed is not the exact word, Dr. Joplin," Alfredo said. "Dissatisfied more aptly describes my reaction. The drug-induced interrogation only produced what we had already figured out. The basic problem with our young EPW was that he didn't know a lot. He had fallen under the influence of older officers back in his home unit, and he made some unwise political choices."
"What will become of him?"
"He'll be put under arrest in quarters by the Bolivian Army," Alfredo explained. "When this Falangist revolution is broken up, he'll be allowed to resign his commission, provided he agrees to never divulge what he's done. The kid will more than likely go into the banking business with his father."
"Interesting," Joplin commented. "And how are the SEALs doing?"
"They located the Falangist headquarters a couple of weeks ago. They even made a brief raid on the place." "That's encouraging," Joplin stated.
"They weren't strong enough to wipe it out or force a surrender," Alfredo said. "But it's good information for an air strike. How about sending a carrier down here?"
"That will not happen," Joplin said. "Could you arrange for one of the South American air forces to do the job?"
"If we could do that, we wouldn't need the SEALs," Alfredo said. "At any rate, the Falangist force in this area, while small, will be reinforced substantially before too much more time goes by."
"Could you be a bit more specific?"
"Early in the new year, they should be strongly established here on the Gran Chaco," Alfredo said. "And there has been no concerted effort to defeat them except for the insertion of twenty-one SEALs into the OA. And one of them, an officer, has been wounded and medevaced. So there're twenty of them now. Next week they might be down by another. Or two. Or a half dozen. Who knows?"
"I agree we must increase the size of the detachment," Joplin said. "What about the armed forces of Chile, Bolivia and Argentina? Have their internal situations improved?"
"I've nothing but discouraging news in those quarters:' Alfredo said. "The lists of officers and noncommissioned officers going AWOL are growing on a daily basis. I realize some may be showing their support for the Falangists by staying away from their posts without actually joining in the fighting, but it is an indication of a problem that is becoming more threatening and complex."
"What are your chances of developing a mole in the Falangist movement?"
"You've heard of that proverbial snowball in hell, haven't you, Dr. Joplin?"
"I deal with it on an almost daily basis," Joplin said, smiling without humor. "In the meantime, what is the intrepid Wild Bill Brannigan planning on doing down there in the OA?"
"He's going into a hit-and-run fluid mode that depends heavily on resupply from Petroleo Colmo," Alfredo explained. "The SEALs are setting up caches around the area not only for normal resupply but to provide places to hunker down if they come under heavy attack."
"I hope we're not considering last stands."
"It could come to that if we leave them all by their lonesomes while their enemy grows stronger," Alfredo said glumly.
"Something must be done," Joplin said as much to himself as his companion.
"You mustn't forget that the loss of valuable people like a SEAL platoon would negatively affect morale within the special operations community," Alfredo said. "It wouldn't do a lot for confidence or trust in the State or Defense Departments:'
Joplin made no comment as he gazed down at the grasslands, deep in thought.
>
.
HEAQUARTERS, GRUPO DE BATALLA CAMPAMENTO ASTRAY
1600 HOURS LOCAL
SARGENT Antonio Muller led his three men through the defensive perimeter around the garrison into its interior. They had just completed a daylong reconnaissance patrol and showed the fatigue brought on by physical exertion combined with high temperatures and humidity.
Their boots were caked with mud, and their camouflage uniforms were sweat-soaked, but they marched smartly into the cantonment area.
Muller brought the small column to a halt. Two of them were sargentos and the other a cabo who had been broken down from sargento-mayor for beating up an insubordinate soldier while serving in the Argentine Army. That was his basic motivation for deserting and joining the Falangist insurgency.
"Good job today," Muller told them. "Your physical conditioning is now tops. When the new recruits arrive you will be ready to give them hell. After you're dismissed you're free to clean up and get ready for mess call. Rompan filas!"
The men made about-faces, then broke ranks and ambled toward their barracks. Muller walked across the parade ground to headquarters, going in to report to the intelligence officer. This was Capita Diego Tippelskirch, who had served in the same parachute infantry battalion in the Chilean Army with the sargento. He had been sent TDY from his battalion to a posting in a supersecret organization during President Antonio Penechet's notorious reign. Like many such officers, the law was closing in on Tippelskirch, and this was the basic reason why he opted for the Falange. Generalisimo Castillo was glad to welcome him into the movement because of his many valuable contacts in the military and naval intelligence services of several South American countries.
"Reporting from patrol duty, mi capita," Sargento Muller said, saluting.
"How did it go, Muller?" Tippelskirch asked, looking up from his paperwork.
"Nothing special to inform you about, sir," Muller said. "But there was a lot of flying about by those red helicopters:'
Tippelskirch nodded. "Those are the ones belonging to that petroleum exploration firm. They've been in the Gran Chaco for quite some time:'
"Their activity seems to be increasing," Muller said. "I am used to seeing them from time to time, but I caught sight of them a total of four times today during our reconnaissance."
Tippelskirch was interested. "What were they doing?"
"Flying rapidly from place to place and landing," Muller said. "They would be out of sight over the far horizon for a short period of time, then suddenly take off and go to another location."
Tippelskirch shrugged. "Perhaps they've finally discovered oil. Since this area will soon be the DFF, the financial benefits will be most useful to our cause. At any rate, I will make a report about the activity at this evening's staff meeting. Anything else, Willer?"
"No, mi capitan."
The sargento saluted, made an about-face that would have done him credit on any parade ground, then marched smartly off to shower and change for mess call.
.
SEAL CACHE LISA
OA, WESTERN SECTION 11 DECEMBER
0745 HOURS LOCAL
GARTH Redhawk used hand signals to direct the Dauphin helicopter to the proper place for landing. As soon as its wheels touched down, all five men of the Command Element rushed forward to grab the bundles being handed out by the aircraft's two-man crew.
The equipment, 5.56-millimeter ammo and MREs, was to be stashed in the nearby_cache dug the night before. This earthen storage area had been dubbed Lisa after Lieutenant Wild Bill Brannigan's wife. He had gotten the idea from studying the Battle of Dien Bien Phu, when the French made their last stand in their war in Vietnam. All the strongpoints in the fortified area had been nam honor of the wives of several of the French officers. Brannigan decided to name this one after his spouse, giving permission to the assault teams to name their own caches after wives and sweethearts also.
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 folk
s 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."
Guerilla Warfare (2006) Page 10
