Guerilla Warfare (2006) s-2

by Jack Terral

  SEAL CACHE MAYBELLE OA, SOUTHERN SECTION

  15 DECEMBER

  0915 HOURS LOCAL

  CHIEF Petty Officer Matt Gunnarson, leader of the First Assault Section, walked through a pouring rain around the recently constructed cache that had been named after Connie Concord's wife. The earthen evacuation, now covered by carefully dug-up sod, was practically invisible, even to someone standing directly on top of it.

  The assault section, recently reorganized since Lieutenant (J. G.) Jim Cruiser had been wounded nine days earlier, had already adapted to the new one-man command structure. Matt was an experienced leader, quickly able to turn things around to his own methods of leadership.

  Mike Assad and Dave Leibowitz considered their assignment to the group as a sort of vacation after days of acting as the detachment's point men and scouts. They were well acquainted with the other old sweats in the section, having served with them in the platoon's first mission in Afghanistan. On the other hand, Petty Officer Second Class Lamar Taylor and Petty Officer Third Class Paulo Cinzento were fresh assignees the original members were just beginning to know.

  Lamar was a twenty-one-year-old African-American from Cincinnati, Ohio. This married man with two kids was at the beginning of his second four-year hitch after shipping over. His entrance into the SEALs had been through the inspiration of a high school teacher who had served in the outfit in Vietnam. Lamar still exchanged letters with the social studies instructor who had wielded such a positive influence in his life.

  Paulo was from San Diego and had lived around the local naval facilities all his life. His family were tuna fishermen of Portuguese ancestry who had worked the seiners out of Southern California for three generations. The collapse of that industry kept the twenty-two-year-old from going to sea like the older men in his family, so he enlisted in the Navy to "ride the waves." However, the indoctrination in boot camp about SEALs attracted him to that challenging branch of the armed forces. His girlfriend Rosa was a court reporter in San Diego.

  Matt was pleased with the condition of the hidden cache and now turned his attention to the men of the section. They all stood in the rain, their ponchos glistening with wetness, as they waited for the chief to get the day's real business rolling.

  "All right," Matt said, "we're ready to go. We'll leave the raider boat and piragua hidden in the reeds there along the river. The Skipper wants us to recon this part of the OA. The mission is to gather what intelligence we can on local conditions. If we sight targets of opportunities, we're not to attack without an okay from the Command Element. Does everyone understand that? If we spot any bad guys, I'll get on the horn and describe the situation to Lieutenant Brannigan. He'll choose our course of action. Fight or flight. Got it? All right, Bravo Fire Team take the point."

  The small column formed up and moved out onto the savannah that was getting a heavy soaking in the precipitation.

  .

  OA, SOUTHWEST SECTION

  1000 HOURS LOCAL

  THE rainstorm had passed through the area, and now the sun blazed down, boiling invisible clouds of humidity out of the soaked ground. Delta Fire Team along with Senior Chief Petty Officer Buford Dawkins and SAW gunner Joe Miskoski watched as the Petroleo Colmo helicopter came in for a windy landing that sent a rolling ripple across the grasslands. As soon as it touched down, Lieutenant Wild Bill Brannigan stepped out from the troop compartment and trotted over to his SEALs.

  "Good morning, sir," Dawkins said, rendering a salute. "Anything special going on?"

  "Same old shit mostly," Brannigan said. "But you're going to take a chopper ride over to the east to many up with Charlie Fire Team. I want your entire section to be together."

  "Right, sir. What're we gonna be doing?"

  "The first thing is to set up a cache with the ammo and rations on board," Brannigan said. "You can name it after one of the guys' wives or sweethearts. The Command Element has Lisa, and Chief Gunnarson said they named theirs Maybelle after Petty Officer Concord's wife."

  "Well, hell, I ain't married, sir," Dawkins said. He looked over at his men. "Hey, Gutsy! What's your old lady's name? We're gonna call our cache after her."

  Gusty Olson laughed. "Krista. I'll have to take a picture of it to show her."

  "Two reasons you ain't gonna be able to do that," Dawkins said. "First of all you ain't got a camera; and the second reason is that if a cache is done proper, you can't see the godamn thing anyhow?'

  Gutsy shrugged. "She'll be honored just the same. I guess."

  "Now hear this," Brannigan said loudly to get everyone's attention. "Your mission after digging the cache is going to be pure reconnaissance, got it? Do not make any contact with the enemy unless I okay it first. Your mission will be to pinpoint Falangist movements and locations. The Petroleo Colmo outfit has acquired another Dauphin chopper so each of the assault sections will have one. The Command Element will play its transportation by ear. Let's go!"

  "You heard the Skipper," Dawkins bellowed. "Start breaking ground on Krista."

  Gutsy scowled. "I don't think I like the sound of that."

  .

  HEADQUARTERS, GRUPO DE BATALLA

  CAMPAMENTO ASTRAY

  NOON LOCAL

  NINE new men had arrived in the garrison the day before after a flight from Argentina aboard the generalisimo's Piaggio turbojet. Six were Spanish officers from both the Foreign Legion and parachute infantry units, and two were Portuguese noncommissioned officers from their nation's Marine Detachment for Special Duties. Additionally, one disaffected Spanish-speaking sergeant from the French Gendarmerie Nationale was also among the new men: He'd gotten into hot water for killing a stubborn and defiant Algerian terrorist suspect he had arrested; it looked like he was headed for a general court-martial. He made a critical decision to flee France to avoid prosecution.

  The Frenchman's name was Arnaud Chaubere, and he was one of those individuals with cold eyes and a calm exterior not unlike that of a leopard preparing to attack. When the new men arrived, they were formed up for a quick inspection by Generalisimo Castillo. He looked at each one, but he stopped for a long moment in front of the former gendarme. "I've heard of you, Chaubere."

  "Yes, mi generalisimo," he answered in French-accented Spanish.

  "You had a bit of a problem with a terrorist prisoner, did you not?"

  "Yes, mi generalisimo," Chaubere said. "I bent him a little too much, and he broke."

  The generalisimo laughed aloud. "You're the type of man we're looking for. I hereby appoint you to the rank of sargento-mayor."

  "Gracias, mi generalisimo! "

  Coronel Jeronimo Busch, standing off to the side, was favorably impressed with all nine. They were obviously in top-notch physical condition, well-experienced and proven in combat, and had the right political attitudes to put forth the aims and goals of the Falangist movement.

  After Castillo had finished his inspection, he turned the men over to Capitan Silber to be taken to an orientation. As he was walking back to headquarters, Busch hurried and caught up with him. "Generalisimo," the coronel said. "I have a suggestion."

  "And what might that be?" Castillo asked.

  "I think we should team up that Frenchman Chaubere with Punzarron and Muller."

  Castillo came to a halt and looked at him. He suddenly smiled. "That is an excellent suggestion, Coronel. I will have Ignacio take care of the paperwork for the assignment:'

  .

  1400 HOURS LOCAL

  WHEN Generalisimo Castillo walked into the staff meeting area of the thatched headquarters hut, he found everyone present and accounted for. Comnel Jeronimo Busch, Comandantes Javier Toledo and Gustavo Cappuzzo, and the intelligence officer Capitan Diego Tippelskirch were ready to conduct business. Even diminutive and edgy Suboficial Ignacio Perez was in his place with his pads of papers and folders.

  "First things first," Castillo said, sitting down. "What are our latest strength figures, Ignacio?"

  Ignacio quickly pulled out the cor
rect folder. "With the nine new men who arrived today, we now have a total of ninety-four men, mi generalisimo. So far we have had six men killed and one is missing in action."

  "They shall be avenged, por Dios!" Castillo said. "Anything else?"

  "Our rations, ammunition and equipment inventory is more than adequate, mi generalisimo," Ignacio said. "Also, we will soon receive another helicopter that has beenwell--that is to say--donated to the Ejercito Falangista by members of the Argentine Air Force."

  Everyone laughed loudly at the little man's understatement, and Castillo asked, "What sort of aircraft is it, Ignacio?'

  "It is an SA-330 Puma, mi generalisimo," Ignacio reported. He pulled out a descriptive document on the helicopters. "It is manufactured in Great Britain by Westland Helicopters and can travel at two hundred and seventy-eight kilometers an hour."

  Busch didn't give a damn about the mechanical or technical features of the aircraft. "How many men can it carry, Perez?"

  "Sixteen fully equipped soldiers can be transported in its troop compartment, mi coronel," he said replacing the papers in the folder. "It should arrive here sometime within the next two days."

  "That's good news!" Busch exclaimed. "Now we can get serious. Between the new helicopter and the EC-635, we will be able to carry twenty-four troops into battle."

  "Things improve almost on a daily basis:' Castillo stated happily. He nodded to Tippelskirch. "Anything going on in intelligence, Capitan?"

  "Si, mi generalisimo," Tippelskirch replied. "I have been very curious about this petroleum research company that flies constantly over the Gran Chaco. My usual sources have no information on them, but I have a contact in the Chilean Bureau of Security that can get me the information I need. However, it will take some time."

  "Stay on that," Castillo ordered. "Anything else?"

  "I visited the village of Novida and interrogated the headman there," Tippelskirch said. "Suboficial Punzarron acted as my interpreter, of course. I wanted to find out more about that enemy unit that passed through the area. After an hour of questioning, I have reached the conclusion the interlopers are Americans."

  "Are you saying that the United States has dispatched armed forces into the Gran Chaco?" Castillo asked.

  Tippelskirch shrugged. "I can't be sure of that. Perhaps they are from an American private military company. This is a new industry that has sprung out of the attack on New York City on Nueve-Once--Nine-Eleven."

  "I believe such businesses only provide local security and bodyguards," Castillo said.

  "Well, there is always the possibility they are CIA," Tippelskirch pointed out.

  "Bah!" Castillo snarled. "They are bandidos, eh? And that's the way I want them to be referred to. Not as honorable soldiers or even guerrillas. everyone make a note of that! They are bandidos! That will give our men more confidence when they go out to fight and kill them."

  "I have a couple of suggestions, mi generalisimo," Busch said. "I strongly suggest we move out of this garrison. The bandidos know this location and have even attacked us here. We should set up a fortified area with bunkers, barbed wire and mines."

  "But we do not have the labor force necessary for such an undertaking," Castillo argued.

  The Argentine Capitan Argento interjected, "I have an excellent solution to that problem, mi generalisi take care of it through contacts I have in the Argentine Federal Police."

  "I'll leave that to you, Argento," Castillo said. He gestured to Comandantes Toledo and Cappuzzo. "You two will each detail men to search out a proper area where field fortifications can be constructed." Now his eyes snapped back to Busch. "Any more suggestions, Coronel?"

  "Since the two helicopters give us the capability of setting up ambushes and sneak attacks, I think we should form up a special equipo comando--commando team," Busch said.

  Once more Castillo approved. "And who are you considering for the team?"

  "It's is a suggestion I made once before," Busch said. "Suboficial Punzarron, Sargento-Mayor Chaubere, and Sargento Muller."

  Ignacio spoke up. "That has already been done, mi generalisimo!"

  .

  STATE DEPARTMENTWASHINGTON, D. C.

  16 DECEMBER

  1045 H0URS LOCAL

  THE cab pulled up in front of the State Department building, just outside the cement barricades put up to thwart suicide bomber vehicles. The passenger got out, turning to pay his fare, then walked up toward the building. After presenting an I. D. card at the door, he was admitted into the lobby. A quick exchange at the security desk between the man and the duty officer resulted in a phone call.

  Moments later a balding young man in a white shirt, tan slacks and loafers appeared. He and the visitor recognized each other and shook hands, then the pair walked across the chamber to an empty elevator and got in. Eight seconds later they reached the third floor, stepping out into a hallway that led down to the office of Carl Joplin, PhD, Undersecretary of State. They walked into the reception area, and the young man turned the visitor over to the receptionist.

  She smiled at him. "How are you today, Mr. Sanchez?"

  "I am fine, thank you," Arturo Sanchez, special envoy from the government of Bolivia, replied. "I received a message to call on Dr. Joplin as quickly as possible."

  "I'll let him know you're here," the receptionist said. She picked up her phone. "Mr. Sanchez has arrived, sir." She hung up. "You may go in."

  Sanchez stepped through an unmarked door to find Joplin sitting at his desk. They shook hands, and the Chilean took an offered chair. Sanchez had a great deal of respect for the African-American undersecretary, and he waited patiently for him to initiate whatever proceedings he had in mind for the visit.

  Joplin, as was his habit, cut to the chase. "There is a village of illegal alien Brazilians in Bolivia. They are engaged in raising cattle in the Gran Chaco area."

  "I am not aware of them, Dr. Joplin, but I have no doubt that your information is correct," Sanchez said. "Would they have become involved in the unhappy circumstances in that part of my country?"

  "They are not involved in the fighting," Joplin replied, "but they aid the Falangist movement as observers. They pass on information to them."

  "That is intolerable," Sanchez stated, using a calm, diplomatic tone when speaking the angry words.

  "Novida--that is their name for the village where they live--makes our men's mission down there more difficult," Joplin explained. "These are black people who view the local authorities with a marked amount of fear and mistrust. I have most reliable information that the fascists have offered them protection in exchange for serving them. Gifts of food are also involved in the exchanges."

  "I can see that these villagers are dealt with right away," Sanchez said. "They are cooperating with enemies of the state."

  "I would like to emphasize that these are decent people," Joplin cautioned him. "They are not involved in criminal activity, and they can't be blamed for accepting whatever help they can get. As undocumented foreigners, they have no place to turn when things go bad for them. Therefore, the United States government would prefer that they be peacefully and respectfully deported back to Brazil."

  "I will see that the matter is handled with courtesy and consideration," Sanchez assured him.

  "The United States government also requests that none of their belongings or money be taken from them," Joplin said. "And that includes their cattle. They are poor people."

  "I cannot promise that," Sanchez said. "We have laws and procedures that must be followed. However, I will see what can be done. Is there anything else?"

  "Not a this time, thank you," Joplin said. He visibly relaxed and smiled. "Now, Arturo, with our business taken care of, my wife and I would be pleased if you and Mrs. Sanchez came by for dinner tonight. Eight o'clock. It will be an intimate affair; just us four."

  "I would be delighted, Carl," Sanchez said, standing up. "I must get back to my office and get this Novida village thing put in the pipeline. Until tonight at ei
ght. Good afternoon, my friend."

  "Buenas tardes, amigo mio," Joplin responded in Spanish.

  .

  OA, WESTERN SECTION

  17 DECEMBER

  1515 HOURS

  out the area to the east of Cache Lisa. Garth Redhawk was on point, moving with the self-assuredness and silence of a Kiowa warrior. The camouflage paint on his face was applied in the old tribal manner, and his medicine bag was around his neck held by a rawhide thong. Back to the rear of the small column, Chad Murchison kept an eye to each side of their trek as well as the rear. Brannigan, Frank Gomez and James Bradley moved along between the two, covering the middle of the column.

  Redhawk sighted the Falangist at the exact moment the man sighted him. They quickly exchanged shots, the reports of the CAR-15 and the CETME assault rifle cracking simultaneously. "Enemy front!" Redhawk said over the LASH. "Unknown number."

  Brannigan immediately reacted to the situation and formed the element into a skirmish line with James and Chad going to Redhawk's left, while he and Frank went to the right. Everyone immediately went to the ground, since the encounter took place on an open, flat area with no cover other than the tall grass. The Falangists had wisely done the same, and now neither side could see the other.

  "Redhawk," Brannigan said over the LASH, "move forward and check out the situation. If they haven't moved back, they could be just waiting for one of us to show ourselves. Be damn careful!"

  "Aye, sir," Redhawk calmly replied in a whisper.

  This descendant of the Kiowa and Comanche tribes eased silently toward the enemy, being careful to be as quiet as possible without causing undue movement of the grass. Being in combat took him deep into the culture of his people, and he felt that he was in his element. At that exact moment, Redhawk was performing the one thing he was on the earth to do; to kill as a warrior kills. It made no difference whether it was to close in on game such as elk or buffalo or to seek out the enemy of his people to slay them. He was a fighter, a hunter, and a plunderer. All his personal honor and purposes in life were wrapped up in those three endeavors. It was as if he had been pulled into a time warp.