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 return 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.
.
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 and 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!"
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 mach
ine 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.
Guerilla Warfare (2006) Page 24
