Killing Che

by Chuck Pfarrer

  The big man’s clothing had dried where he was close to the fire. Elsewhere, across his back and the backs of his legs, it was still wet, and he shivered as he walked over to the house.

  Joaquin gestured, and Rulon came out of the house toward him. “Do you know a place we can cross the river?” Joaquin asked.

  Rulon nodded. “I do. At the regular crossing, the water is too high. But there is another place, farther north, where cattle can still be driven across.” He added knowingly, “The army does not know about this place. Only I do.”

  “We’ll want to cross tomorrow.”

  From inside the house, Rulon’s wife sniffled. “I will have to check the ford,” Rulon said.

  “How long will it take?”

  “It’s only an hour to get there. Maybe a little longer. I can check it early in the morning and come back.”

  Joaquin did not trust the farmer entirely, though the meal had dulled his suspicion slightly. “How far up the river is this ford?”

  “Three miles. Maybe less.”

  It was far enough away, Joaquin thought, but he would be careful.

  “Then we will do this,” he said. “Mark the crossing place with a piece of cloth hung from a branch. We’ll wait near the ford. When it is safe for you to lead us across, all you need to do is show yourself near the spot. We’ll find you.”

  “I’ll start out in the morning,” Rulon said, and he grinned as disarmingly as he could.

  “It’s worth fifty Bolivianos to you to get us across,” Joaquin said.

  “Thank you, Señor. The place I know is perfect. You will be safely across the river by nightfall.”

  He stood grinning, an expression without meaning, and Joaquin wished the river crossing were already accomplished. He wished that he had the river between him and the army and that he was miles away from this greedy, shifty son of a bitch. Joaquin was tired and cold down to his bones. Even in starlight, Rulon seemed to have a lying face, but Joaquin felt that the precaution of having him mark the crossing place would be sufficient. He would send scouts out soon after dawn, and they could watch the ford. Inside the house, the baby cried, and Rulon’s wife whimpered for her pathetically.

  “Tomorrow, then,” Joaquin said.

  “Until then,” said the peasant, and he ducked into the house.

  WHEN THEY HEARD the news that two prisoners had been taken, Hoyle and Charlie drove into the Ranger encampment at El Pincal at ten in the morning. Word had come first that the two had been captured after a fight, but the story gradually shed its more spectacular embellishments, and it was revealed that the two guerrillas had deserted and were not captured but had walked onto a stretch of the Camiri Highway, flagged down a truck, and asked to be driven to the nearest police station. They’d been handed over from the CID eventually to the army. Hoyle and Charlie had made the drive early in the morning as the treatment of the prisoners was still in some doubt. Hoyle did not want them murdered, especially if information could be had.

  The site was neatly laid out. Sentries were posted in two places on the road. Hoyle parked the Land Cruiser, then walked with Charlie toward the small farmhouse that served as a headquarters. Gustavo Merán, Hoyle’s comrade from the firefight at the river, called from a cluster of tents. He was now a suboficial mayor, sergeant major of the Ranger battalion. He looked sleek and fierce. When they met, Merán smiled slyly and said to Hoyle, “I see that you don’t give up so easily.”

  Hoyle congratulated him on his promotion and his Ranger tab. For the compliment the old warhorse shook his head.

  “Not much else for me to do,” he said. Merán walked with them toward the farmhouse, exchanging a few words with Charlie in Guaraní.

  Hoyle asked about the prisoners, and Merán became slightly less animated.

  “Prisoner,” he said. “There is now only one.”

  Charlie saw Hoyle draw a breath. Merán did not seem apologetic when he said, “The Fourth Division transported the men to the Ranger camp by helicopter. One of them tried to escape.”

  Hoyle’s voice was a growl. “From a flying helicopter?”

  Merán shrugged as they walked. Hoyle was furious but did his best to mask it. He calmed himself by bringing to mind that Merán had not committed the murder. The sergeant was unmoved about the death of an enemy.

  “That man had information,” Hoyle said.

  “So does the other.” The sergeant major had seen a lot of war in his life, all over the world, and prisoners sometimes fell from helicopters—in Algeria, in Vietnam, in other places. In Bolivia the death of a mercenary bandit would not even involve any paperwork. It occurred to Hoyle that the murder had been done deliberately to provoke him. Major Placido was on the staff of the Fourth Division. The trial of D’Esperey and Sandoval was under way and was proving to be an ongoing embarrassment to Barrientos’s regime. The orders to reduce the number of live captures may have come from the top. In the eyes of the Bolivian army, this was not seen as criminal or even gratuitous murder; it had been done for a purpose. The practice of disappearing captured guerrillas would probably be impossible to stop.

  Merán went on, “In any event, it was not the Rangers who murdered him. It was the Fourth Division. The remaining prisoner has become extremely cooperative.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Here. In custody.” Merán gestured toward the farmhouse. “The captain has prepared a briefing for you.”

  Hoyle found Captain Salinas sitting at a plank table in the small house. A pile of maps and an M2 carbine lay in front of him. Salinas was a tall man, lean of flesh; he had a sharp face and piercing eyes. He stood and smiled as Hoyle ducked through the blanket hung across the door. The captain’s handshake was firm, and his gaze was direct. Salinas wore a field-green set of fatigues, and his paratroopers’ boots were impressively shined. On his shoulder, he wore a shield-shaped patch emblazoned with the number 2, and above it, a yellow and black arc held the word RANGER.

  Merán introduced Hoyle, and Charlie stayed outside. Salinas waved to a chair; Merán had coffee ready and poured out two cups.

  “Can I send some coffee to your man outside?” the captain asked.

  “I’d like it if he could speak to the prisoner,” Hoyle answered.

  “Of course,” Salinas said. He nodded, and Merán brought Charlie into the house.

  “I have prepared a thorough debriefing. As you have heard, the prisoner has been extremely cooperative.”

  “Has he been tortured?”

  “That was not necessary.” The captain smiled.

  Hoyle turned to Charlie. “Talk to him.”

  Merán and Charlie went out, and the captain unrolled a topographic map and turned it around on the desk so Hoyle could see it.

  “The prisoner revealed that he was part of a fifteen-man detachment split off from the main guerrilla column. The group contains four Bolivians who are disaffected and have been kicked out of the insurgent group. They were kept under guard. He said that within their column, morale was low, and that several guerrillas were sick and had to be carried.”

  “How many total?” Hoyle asked.

  “One was killed by our forces last week. Two deserted. That leaves a total of twelve.”

  “Was there a woman among them?”

  “Yes. He said she was German.”

  Hoyle did not say anything about Tania, though his question revealed to Salinas that he knew a great deal.

  “The prisoner says that the detachment has been separated from the main column and has been searching for them.”

  This struck Hoyle as incredible. “They’re lost?”

  “Apparently so,” Salinas said.

  “We have placed sensors on one of the trails used by the guerrilla forces,” Hoyle said.

  “What do you mean, sensors?”

  “Electronic devices camouflaged as vegetation. They detect vibration in the ground. They can detect the passing of troops.”

  The captain smiled wryly. That the Americans had s
uch technology did not surprise him, though he did not necessarily trust electronic things left out in the jungle. “Who put down these sensors?”

  “I did.” Hoyle touched the map. “Here. On a trail axis we are certain is being used by the enemy.” He explained briefly what the Igloo White devices could do. He continued, “Yesterday afternoon, the sensors indicated that twelve people had passed on the trail. Heading north.”

  Salinas had not yet taken measure of Hoyle, but the captain had been very impressed by Major Sheldon, the training officer in charge of Famous Traveler. Hoyle had revealed something; it was now Salinas’s turn.

  “This complements what we have learned from the prisoner. He says that his group tried to remain hidden, in encampments by the Iripiti River, and then by the Salado. They were moving north to avoid our patrols.”

  “They had to move after the desertion was discovered.”

  “That’s likely,” Salinas said. He lit a cigarette and continued, “We have had information from a patriotic farmer in the northern part of the valley. He claimed that the guerrillas will move across the Rio Grande at a certain place and that an ambush could be set up at the crossing point. The informant sent a relative to the village of Alto Seco. The corregidor telegraphed the information to us. The farmer claimed through this relative that he could not make a report in person, as the guerrilla column was camped nearby and his family was at their mercy.”

  “Who commands this second group?” Hoyle asked.

  “The prisoner said the leader’s name was Joaquin. He is one of Guevara’s lieutenants.”

  “A Cuban?”

  Salinas nodded. “The general staff estimates Guevara’s strength at three hundred men.”

  “We think his total numbers are around fifty. Total.”

  Salinas touched the map at the northern end of the valley, close to the Rio Grande. “Then this group being offered by the farmer—they are a detachment of some kind.”

  “Exactly,” Hoyle said.

  “Why has he split his force?”

  Hoyle shook his head. “The detachment to the north may have been intended to carry out a diversionary attack. That might still happen. But they’re isolated, and there is no radio communication. If we find them, we can step on them. This situation might not present itself again.”

  Salinas wanted to insert his troops as rapidly as possible. At his command were two platoons of freshly minted Rangers, eager and trained to a standard not common in a Latin army.

  “I’d like to accompany your patrol, Captain,” Hoyle said. “That is, with your permission.”

  “You are welcome, Mr. Hoyle. The sergeant major speaks very highly of you.” Salinas nodded toward the door. “Will your man be coming as well?”

  “No,” Hoyle said. “He’ll stay here.”

  Hoyle met with Charlie and confirmed that the prisoner was still alive. Barely. He had been beaten so badly that his body looked like a wrecked thing that clothing had been hung on. Charlie confirmed in general terms what the captain had said, that Joaquin’s detachment was separated, that its morale was low, and that they were carrying sick or wounded. Hoyle attended the briefing of the troops, and Salinas again impressed Hoyle. The captain laid out the concept of operations using a standard American five-paragraph field order. The briefing covered scheme of maneuver, fire support, key teams and individuals, formation, and order for movement. There was a plan, and a plan if things went wrong. Famous Traveler had delivered on its promise to make soldiers.

  As the briefing wound up, Hoyle stood and passed out a copy of Tania Vünke’s photograph. “This person may be traveling with the guerrilla column. If she is, she’s a live capture. Do not, I repeat, do not shoot this individual. She is to be taken alive.”

  The picture of Tania passed hand to hand; other than a few grunts, it elicited no comment. Provided the ambush took place in daylight, it was possible to spare this life.

  “The engagement will require fire discipline,” Salinas said. “In addition to the guerrillas, there may also be one additional noncombatant—the farmer who is to guide the guerrillas across the river. He, too, is to be a live capture.”

  Hoyle’s fondness for Salinas was strengthened when he was named one of the three people authorized to initiate the ambush, along with Sergeant Major Merán and the captain himself.

  With the briefing concluded, Captain Salinas called the troops to attention. He walked in front of them with his hands clasped behind his back.

  “This will be the first test of Manchego Número Dos against the enemies of our nation,” he said. “For the last twenty-six weeks, we have sweated and trained and watched as a mercenary gang of Communists has run riot in our motherland. We have watched our brother soldiers carried from the jungle, murdered. I am not asking of you, Rangers, that you give your nation your lives. You have already given your lives. Today I expect you to take the lives of the enemy. I expect you to crush them without mercy. I expect today that every Ranger will do his duty.”

  There were smiles and nods among the assembled Rangers. Then Salinas threw his head back and shouted, “¡Victoria o muerte!” The Rangers exploded in cheers, whistles, and raw animal howls.

  As the group put on their packs and shouldered their weapons, Hoyle caught sight of Charlie. He was blessing himself with the sign of the cross.

  54

  JOAQUIN AND HIS column met their end this way:

  Four Huey helicopters transported the Rangers to a landing zone five kilometers below the river. The troops quickly ordered themselves for movement, one platoon covered as the other advanced, and within four hours, Hoyle was settling in with the ambush party overlooking a broad, lazy bend of the Rio Grande. Thirty riflemen were arrayed in the brush and rocks overlooking the river. Through his binoculars, Hoyle surveyed the far bank; the crossing place had been marked with a white strip of cloth that appeared to be a kitchen apron. The river rolled past, and a light breeze muttered through the trees.

  Hoyle positioned himself behind a fallen log ten or fifteen yards from the bank. Within sight were Captain Salinas and his radio operator. Between Hoyle and the captain were a machine gunner and two assistants. Hoyle watched as they silently set up their weapon and the loader positioned a one-hundred-round belt of ammunition.

  Two other M60 machine guns were aimed on the crossing, and two dozen rifles besides. Each man of the thirty had an assigned field of fire, a space of river and bank to be swept with bullets, and the men of the second platoon deployed on the flanks had their orders as well. No one would fire until the ambush was opened by one of the officers authorized to begin the engagement.

  The clouds drifted apart, and the sun spilled down in patches. Gradually, the afternoon opened, and the whole light of day came upon the riverbank. Hoyle lay with his weapon against his right shoulder, the muzzle and fore grip balanced on the log in front of him. The river moved past, brown and limpid, and as the sunlight became more defined, shadows came down sharply on the forest floor around him. The sun filtered through a double canopy and beyond the rocks and boulders that littered the river course; the tree line across the water glowed an almost incandescent green.

  Hoyle’s mind opened to the jungle around him. Sensation overcame and then displaced thought. His eyes scanned, and his ears filtered sound. An hour passed, then another. Hoyle smelled the forest, a scent of life and decay, and the river showed beautifully in the long afternoon. Leaves drifted by on the surface of the water, and now and again a whirlpool sucked past, spinning concave on the green-colored surface. On a branch next to Hoyle’s face, a swordtail butterfly alighted, opening its wings, black and electric blue. Another joined the first, and they remained on the twig, brushing together black and white forelegs; the butterflies glimmered like jewels in a necklace. For a long while Hoyle did not look at the apron marking the ambush, as it seemed that nothing violent could ever happen on a day bright with butterflies.

  The birds became quiet, and this slight change in the tone of the fores
t sent an electric current through the ambushers. Across the river, brush parted high up on the bank, and there was a small sound—the popping of branches. Leading a chestnut horse by its bridle, a short, dark-complected man appeared next to the apron. He wore pants made of homespun and a disreputable woolen jacket; on his head was a shabby fedora. The man peered out from the tree line at the rocks lining the bank. He held the horse’s bridle and bent a knee, looking around at the stones, and then he gazed steadily across the river.

  The distance across to the other bank was perhaps one hundred yards, and the lenses brought close the man’s face. Hoyle recognized the brusque gestures and the dark hair and deep-set eyes. It was the farmer who had said he hated the Communists because they did not love the Virgin Mary. Hoyle remembered the man’s name because it seemed so ill suited to him: Honradez.

  Hoyle watched as the farmer flitted around the apron, looking up and down clumsily. Then he led his horse over the stones and a little way into the river and splashed handfuls of water up onto her flanks. The old mare’s sides twitched and shimmied. Rulon led the horse back up onto the bank and tied the reins to a branch. Hoyle diverted his eyes when Rulon turned his head and stared into the jungle close to where Hoyle was lying. I will not look at him again, Hoyle thought.

  After a few minutes standing by the horse, Rulon walked back onto the bank and sat openly on a boulder in the sun. The afternoon was fading, and shadows were rising under the hills where the river turned north. Hoyle looked at his watch and thought that the guerrillas were close—they were probably watching the crossing. This was what Hoyle would have done, especially if he’d had to use a local guide. Hoyle did not think it likely the guerrillas would cross in full daylight. They might send across scouts; this, too, was what Hoyle would have done.

  Hoyle lay still and watched the river. The apron waved in the air slowly, back and forth. Don’t overthink this, Hoyle told himself. Let them come into the trap; they must come first, and then it would be decided how to open the engagement.