by Jack Terral
Punzarron smiled at the compliment. But inside the camp, Navajaso Coletti walked up to the gang leader, Gordo Pullini. He spoke softly to his chief, saying, "If you ever decide to have that Portuguese hijo de puta killed, I would like the honor of sending him to hell."
"That I promise you, Nava," Pullini said. "Now let's eat and get some rest after all this nonsense."
Chapter 13
PETROLEO COLMO FIELD OFFICE GRAN CHACO
6 JANUARY
0515 HOURS LOCAL
THE EC-635 helicopter had landed five kilometers to the southwest of the field offices, out of sight and hearing of the site. Now, after a quick cross-country hike from the aircraft, Coronel Jeronimo Busch and his companion Suboficial Adolfo Punzarron peered at the facility through their binoculars. They were fifty meters away, well hidden under their camouflage capes as they observed the target of that morning's mission. Twenty meters farther behind the command duo, Sargento-Mayor Amaud Chaubere and Sargento Antonio Muller, along with four Falangist troops, were also concealed in the grass of the savannah.
The bright red Petroleo helicopters, tied down on their pads, were easily visible, but no guards were within sight. "They are careless with their security," Punzarron remarked.
"I do not think they want to give an outward impression that they are a tactical combat outfit," Busch said.
This mission was planned and put into execution the evening before. The Falangist intelligence officer, newly promoted Comandante Diego Tippelskirch, had been radioed a confirmation that the Petroleo Colmo Oil Company was a CIA front. This verification also contained the information that three missing Falangist fighters captured by the bandidos were being held in the firm's field office in the southeastern part of the Gran Chaco.
Now Busch turned toward Chaubere and Muller to signal them to move forward with the four troops. They approached with Star submachine guns locked and loaded to join Busch and Punzarron. The group moved en masse toward the building with Busch in the lead. When they reached the door, they paused only long enough to listen for any activity within the building. There was none. The coronel kicked the front door open, and they rushed inside.
The raiders found nothing but a small office, and they wasted no time in charging through another door that led farther into the interior of the building. This was a dormitory of sorts with four men lying in bunks. They had just awakened and opened their eyes in time for a quick glimpse of their killers. Eight submachine guns spurted bursts of 9-millimeter slugs that swept across the sleeping area. The oil company men were visibly pummeled by the bullet impacts, and a couple toppled out of their bunks onto the floor.
Muller noticed some keys hanging on a far wall by another door. He went over and took them off the wall. After unlocking the egress, he stepped into a short hallway that led to a cell at the end. He hurried to the barred gate and saw the three Falangists. Two were standing up grasping the bars, while the other looked up weakly from where he lay on his bunk.
One of the standing prisoners grinned widely. "Por Dios! We are glad to see you!"
The other man on his feet, a veteran sargento of the Chilean marines, was so happy he laughed alo hijos de chingadas were going to send us back to Santiago for court-martial:'
Muller quickly opened the cell, and the two shook hands with them both, looking down at the man who still lay on his bunk. "How's he doing?"
"Not too good," the first prisoner said. "He was given some medical attention, but they said he would have to go to a hospital for proper treatment. They were going to fly us out this afternoon."
The second prisoner gestured at their badly injured comrade. "He's not really fully conscious." He looked into Muller's eyes. "We don't have the facilities to do anything for him if we take the poor tipo back to Fuerte Franco. And if we leave our poor companero here, they will take him away for treatment, but after that, he will go under intense interrogation."
Muller walked over and sat down on the bunk. "Hello, amigo," he said. "We can have you flown to an army hospital just over the Argentine border. They will have you on your feet in no time." As he spoke, he pulled his Beretta automatic pistol from its holster on his web belt. He gently placed the muzzle against the delirious man's temple. A pull on the trigger sent brains and blood splattering over the cell wall. Muller got to his feet. "Let's go, companeros!"
The trio went back into the dormitory. When they walked in they saw that an uninjured man had been found under one of the bunks. He stood in his shorts and T-shirt with his hands in the air. Busch stood in front of him, scowling. "Y to nombre?"
"Me Ilamo Roberto Torres-Martinez," Alfredo said, using a cover name. "Soy de Puerto Rico."
"A Puerto Rican, eh?" Busch remarked. "That means you're an American citizen, does it not?"
"Wait a minute!" Muller exclaimed. "I've seen this fellow before!" He walked over and studied Alfredo's face. "Segura! He was on the helicopter that landed after that patrol was ambushed. I found a good place for concealment in the grass." He laughed loudly. "The bastards were looking all over for me."
The Chilean ex-marine confirmed it. "That is true. He was there when they captured us."
Busch punched Alfredo once, causing him to stumble backward. He hit him hard again, then a third time that sent the CIA man to the floor. Chaubere walked over and picked him up. He clipped him too, and Alfredo wisely went down, feigning that he was badly dazed.
The punch-up was interrupted when Punzarron came in from another side room. "There is a radio in there, and somebody is calling over it."
Muller picked Alfredo up and frog-marched him into the commo room with Busch and Chaubere following. A voice came over the speaker. "Petrol, this is Brigand. Over. I say again. Petrol, this is Brigand. Over."
Busch looked at Chaubere. "You speak English, do you not?"
"Yes, sir," the Frenchman answered. "But I am afraid it is like my Spanish. Heavily accented."
Busch reached out and yanked Alfredo from Muller's grasp. "I know damn well that you speak English, puertorriqueno'
"Yes," Alfredo said in English. "I speak the language fluently."
"Then answer that transmission!" Busch ordered.
Alfredo picked up the microphone and waited. As soon as the call was repeated, he pressed the TRANSMIT button. "Brigand, this is Petrol. We are compromised. I say again. We are compromised! We are--"
Chaubere knocked the microphone from Alfredo's hand. The ex-Special Forces sergeant major reached over and pulled Muller's pistol from the holster with the flap still unfastened. But before he could fire, Busch swung up his submachine gun and squeezed off a long burst.
Alfredo toppled to the floor, althost cut in half.
Busch looked from the mangled corpse over to his men. "Which of you brought the plastic explosives?"
"It is I, mi coronel," one answered as he snapped to attention.
"Take care of those damn red helicopters out there," Busch said. "I don't want to see another one of those in the sky over the Gran Chaco."
"Si, mi coronel!"
The Falangist pulled the white blocks of C4 from his haversack as he walked from the building to destroy the Petroleo Colmo aircraft.
.
SEAL BASE CAMP COMMO HOOTCH
0545 HOURS LOCAL
FRANK Gomez looked up at Lieutenant Wild Bill Brannigan, who stood beside him. "That was Alfredo, sir."
"Shit!" Brannigan exclaimed. "What the hell could have happened?"
"He said he was compromised, sir."
"Godamn it, Gomez!" Brannigan snapped. "I know what he said. I'm wondering what went wrong."
"Yes, sir."
"This is a lost fucking cause," Brannigan said. "Our local support is completely wiped out. Get the SOI to see what we do in a case like this."
"Aye, sir." Frank reached over to a niche hacked in the dirt wall. The SOI, sealed in plastic with an AN-M14 incendiary thermite grenade standing on it, sat in the small excavation. He pulled it out, ripped off the covering, the
n handed it to the Skipper. Brannigan went through it, finding the information he was looking for. He showed it to Frank.
Frank tuned to the correct frequency, then began transmitting. "Matrix, this is Brigand. Over."
"This is Matrix," came an immediate reply. "Authentication kilo-papa-zulu-echo-tango. I say again. Authentication kilo-papa-zulu-echo-tango."
"This is Brigand," Frank replied. "Wait." He turned to the proper section of the SOI, reading through columns and rows of five-letter groups. "This is Brigand. Authentication follows. Uniform-whiskey-victor-zulu-mike." Then he added the day and month. "Zero-six-zero-one. Over."
"This is Matrix. Authentication verified. Over."
Frank handed the microphone to Brannigan. The Skipper spoke directly and plainly as he passed on the word of the disaster at the oil company's field office. "Petrol is compromised. Over."
A short pause followed before a reply was transmitted. "This is Matrix. You will move to map coordinates six zero--five one--two four--two two--three five--zero niner. I say again. Six zero--five one--two four--two two--three five zero finer. Out."
Frank had copied down the coordinates. He ripped the page out of the pad and handed it to Brannigan. "There you are, sir."
"Yeah," Brannigan said, taking the piece of paper. "That's it. End of transmission. Period."
"They don't want to talk to us no more, sir," Frank said. "That's SOP."
"Yeah," Brannigan grumbled. He reached into his side trouser pocket and pulled out his map. He opened it up and read the grid lines right and up. "Well, hell! We've got a good ways to go:'
"Where're we headed, sir? Frank asked.
"The Selva Verde Mountains," Brannigan replied. "That range is completely covered by jungle. The Rio Ancho will take us there, which means we can go by boat. But the contour lines on this fucking map are so close together a gnat couldn't piss between 'em. That means a steep, difficult climb up to our objective."
"Jesus," Frank said. He had already missed Thanksgiving and Christmas with his family. Now it looked like it would still be a long time before he got. home--if he made it. "What the hell are we do up there?"
"Our best to fucking survive."
.
FUERTO FRANCO
HEADQUARTERS BUNKER
1430 HOURS LOCAL
GENERALISIMO Castillo called a conference with his senior field commander and intelligence officer. Coronel Jeronimo Busch and Comandante Diego Tippelskirch sat in the bunker with Suboficial Ignacio Perez off to one side at his little desk to take notes of the meeting.
Busch was in a good mood. "The bandidos are now without CIA assistance via the Petroleo Colmo Company. And we are the only ones with air support."
Castillo had a concern. "But what if another CIA cover unit moves into the area? Surely they would bring aircraft with them, no?
"That would create no difficulties for us, mi generalisimo," Busch said. "If we see other aircraft in the Gran Chaco, we will shoot them down. Do not forget that the EC-635 has a twenty-millimeter cannon in the nose."
"You're right," Castillo said, relieved. "Well, in the meantime, I have been studying the map and putting myself in the place of the chief of the bandidos. As far as I can determine, he has but two choices. He can either give up the fight and withdraw from the Gran Chaco or carry out his campaign with a new source of support."
"I am not worried," Comandante Tippelskirch said. "Our intelligence net grows stronger at almost a daily rate. Nothing can be moved into the Gran Chaco without our operatives discovering it before it's done. We will be forewarned at every turn of the card in this game."
"Bueno," Castillo said, "what if the bandidos decide to carry out the fight with the resources they have?"
"I believe I've already come up with a plan to take care of that eventuality," Coronel Busch said. "We could send out hunter-killer teams to engage them in battle. Since the only helicopters in the campaign are ours, speed will be in our arsenal. We are the ones who can now move quickly from spot to spot to deal with trouble."
"And that is exactly what we shall do," Castillo said.
"Mi generalisimo," Busch said. "I would like to have Punzarron, Chaubere and Muller permanently assigned to me from this point on. I want those three men close by wherever I go."
"The four would be invincible," Tippelskirch said with a smile.
"Indeed!" Castillo said. "And I think you and Coronel Busch should get together to design some operational combat plans we can put into immediate effect."
Busch nodded. "I think the first thing we must do is switch over our basic tactical structure to become an immediate reaction force."
Castillo smiled his approval at the paratrooper. "Coronel Busch, when this great struggle of ours is won, you will be a mariscal! No, wait! You will be a reichmariscal!"
Ignacio, scribbling in his notebook, had recorded the minutes of the meeting almost word-for-word.
.
WASHINGTON D. C.
THE PENTAGON
SPECIAL OPERATIONS LIAIS0N STAFF
7 JANUARY
Military Police guard at the entrance to the section, Carl Joplin, PhD, stepped through a door into a dingy portion of the big five-sided building. No buffer, mop or even a broom had touched the dusty floor for what looked like months or years. The only thing more isolated from the outside world would be a deep, abandoned coal mine.
Joplin had been in the place many times before. He went directly to the unmarked entrance of a nondescript office. He stepped inside to see the desks of Specialist Mary Kincaid, U. S. Army; and Senior Airman Lucille Zinkowski located in an outer office. Sometimes these stern and efficient young ladies were disturbed by Joplin's surprise appearances, but that morning they had been expecting him.
"Good morning, Dr. Joplin," Kincaid said.
"Colonel Turnbull is waiting to see you," Zinkowski said. "You can go right in:'
Joplin walked into a conference room and crossed it to the office of Colonel John Turnbull, who served as the chief of staff of Special Operations liaison. The undersecretary rapped on the door and stepped inside.
"Hello, Carr Turnbull said. "Grab a seat. This won't take long."
"All right, John," Joplin said, sitting down. "Fire away."
"The SEAL detachment you are dealing with is cut off and without support," Turnbull said, speaking rapidly. "The CIA facility that was backing them up is more than just compromised. It is wiped out."
Joplin leaped to his feet. "You've got to get those guys out of there!"
"I'm afraid they're going to have to stay and fight the good fight until the situation can be brought back under control," the colonel said. "Or maybe, to be more realistic, if the situation can be brought under control."
"What the hell are they supposed to do?"
"They will be moving east to the Selva Verde Mountains, wheregood cover and concealment is available," Turnbull said. "They only have access to equipment and ammunition in their base camp. They would never be able to get out to their auxiliary caches under the present circumstances."
"Then how the hell are they supposed to get over to those mountains?" Joplin asked.
"They'll be able to use a river down there for a straight shot to the place," Turnbull said. "At least that's what I'm told. I'm really not familiar with their OA. Hell! I don't even know what they're doing down there."
"We've got to pull them out," Joplin insisted.
"All I know is that orders are already issued telling them to go to the mountains," Turnbull said. "I was told to inform you. I've done that."
"Orders. Orders," Joplin mumbled.
"Those operational instructions are explicit and will be obeyed," Turnbull said.
"All right," Joplin said. "I suppose I should inform the secretary of state."
Turnbull shrugged. "What the hell can he do?"
Joplin turned and walked from the office, still mumbling to himself.
.
VILLAGE OF CARIDAD THE GRAN CHACO
1530 HOURS LOCAL
A half-dozen people worked slowly down the rows of plants in the garden. Their hoes made clumping sounds in the soil as offending weeds were chopped out and cast aside. They were in a good mood. The crops were doing well and would soon augment the food brought in by the norteamericanos. During the various other activities in the community, some minor injuries, such as cuts and burns, had occurred as would be expected. The antiseptics and bandages in the medical kit given them by their American friends served well in those instances.
Truly, God had blessed this undertaking.
The sound of the helicopter engine in the distance caught their attention. Everyone stopped working and looked toward the southeast. Almost immediately a dot appeared just over the horizon, steadily growing larger as an aircraft approached. The gardeners looked at each other and smiled; their friends from the north were coming back for another visit. One of the men laughed and called out, "Tal vez nos traen cerveza frig maybethey bring us cold beer!"
The reverend Walter Borden, working on an inventory in the food hut, stopped his task and walked outside. He looked up in time to see the helicopter make a wide circle of the village before coming in to land.
"Nuestros amigos han regresado--our friends have returned!"
Other joined him as he rushed over to greet the visitors. But as soon as four men jumped from the aircraft and strode rapidly toward the crowd, the happy mood plummeted to fearful uncertainty. These were not their friends; more than likely they were the soldiers they had been warned about.
Coronel Jeronimo Busch, followed by Punzarron, Chaubere and Muller, hurried to the village. The three lower-ranking men followed Busch as he walked toward Borden, who stood to the front of the crowd. The Chilean paratrooper immediately knew this was the headman. He held out his hand as he approached. "Buenas tardes, senor," the colonel said. He introduced himself, then turned and indicated his subordinates, giving their ranks and names. "We are soldiers of the Ejercito Falangista and have come to inquire as to how you are."