Over at his briefing, the Skipper tipped his boonie hat onto the back of his head as he surveyed his subordinate leaders. He took a deep breath as if to make an important announcement, and the words he uttered, while not earth-shattering, were profound: "We came here to fight."
The SEALs looked at each other, shrugging as if to say, "So what else is new?"
"The situation we're in fits an old Chinese proverb I once heard," Brannigan continued. "The best way to test a tiger's courage and strength is to let him out of his cage." He grinned. "But in this case, the situation we have here today dictates that we go into the cage to get a rise out of the son of a bitch."
Connie Concord, leader of Bravo Fire Team, took the blade of grass he was chewing out of his mouth. "I hope we ain't gonna lock that cage door behind us once we're in there, sir."
"Oh, no," Brannigan assured him. "We'll have a way out in case those fangs and claws are stronger than we anticipated. This mission is to launch a sneak attack in the dark, shoot up the place, then make a quick withdrawal back into the cover of night."
Gutsy Olson, honcho of Delta Fire Team, looked up. "What if we start kicking their asses?"
"Then we'll continue the fight," Brannigan said. "If we inflict enough casualties, we'll break the back of this revolution. If that happens, we could easily be home by Christmas."
"There is one historical aspect of war that cannot be denied," Chad Murchison said. "There has never been one that ended in time for the troops to be home by Christmas." He glanced around. "I'm awfully sorry to be so pessimistic, fellows."
Bruno Puglisi chuckled. "Perfectly all right, old chum. Perhaps we'll be back in time for the polo season, hey, what?"
Chad's face reddened at the loud laughter of the others. He had tried to keep his privileged background a secret, but the longer a man serves in a unit, the more his buddies learn about him. They met his sweetheart, Penny Brubaker, when the unit was in Afghanistan. She was a UN relief worker, and it was obvious to the SEALs that the couple came from moneyed families.
"Oh, dear!" Joe Miskoski said. "I do miss driving about in my Rolls-Royce, chaps."
"Shut up!" Senior Chief Buford Dawkins bellowed. "This is a mission briefing not a bullshit session."
"Right you are, Senior Chief," Brannigan said, grinning to himself at Miskoski and Puglisi's affected upper-class accents. "So here's how it's going down. We'll leave the bivouac at twenty-four hours. Needless to say, make sure you have your night vision goggles with you. We'll go in a direct line to the position of the enemy garrison as was determined by the Odd Couple's GPS reading. When we arrive, the First Assault Section will form a line from east up to north. The Second Section will be from east around to the south. That will make a nice tight horseshoe formation. We don't want to completely surround the place or we'll be inflicting casualties on ourselves through friendly fire."
"Where is the Command Element gonna be, sir?" James Bradley asked.
"Right in the center," Brannigan replied. "The attack will be a fire mission only with automatic fire. There won't be much of a chance for sniping; and I want the two SAW gunners to pour a hell of a lot of quick bursts into the target area. You guys might not hit very many of 'em, but they'll sure as hell keep their heads down and not move around a lot. When I determine I've learned enough of about their capabilities, I'll order a withdrawal. We'll beat it back here, then hop aboard the boats for a trip back to the base camp:'
"What about commo, sir?" Frank Gomez asked.
"All transmissions between myself and the section and team leaders will be over the AN/PRCs," Brannigan said.
"Team commo will be by LASH." He checked his watch. "We'll be leaving in approximately nine hours. Get back to your guys and brief them. I want everybody to take advantage of this opportunity to rest up:'
The SEALs got slowly to their feet, then walked out toward the perimeter to find their teams.
.
HEADQUARTERS, BANDERA 1
1945 HOURS LOCAL
THE evening guard scheduled to take over the garrison's defensive perimeter had been drawn up on the parade ground in the vicinity of the headquarters hut. All wore freshly washed camouflage uniforms complete with Kevlar helmets, LASH headsets, night vision goggles and binoculars. Their web equipment held ammo pouches filled with magazines of 5.56-millimeter rounds for their CETME assault rifles. The only thing different from normal field attire were their boots; the footwear was spit-shined bright enough to pass inspection on any parade ground.
The officer of the guard for the night was Suboficial Adolfo Punzarron. He had dressed like the others with the exception of his headgear. Rather than a helmet, he wore the tasseled olive-green forage cap of the Spanish Foreign Legion. In place of the usual webbing, he sported a pistol belt holding a holstered Spanish Astra 7.63-millimeter automatic pistol.
Punzarron marched over to the far right man in the rank to begin his inspection. He went down the line from man to man, finding no fault with their collective appearance. These were veterans with years of military service and knew all the tricks of falling out sharp for guard mount. They were also aware of the suboficial' s violent temper and wished to avoid a hard punch to the face. Everything looked good to Punzarron until he reached a Chilean paratrooper sergeant named Antonio Muller. There was no shine on his boots.
Punzarron snapped his eyes up to look straight into Muller's face. "Your boots look as if you rubbed melted chocolate all over them. Why did you not shine them?"
"My boots are for use in the field," Muller said calmly. He was also a large, muscular man who had spent his entire military career in parachute rifle companies. "I therefore applied waterproof dubbing for use on active operations, rather than polish to make them shiny and pretty."
Punzarron seemed to growl as he spoke. "I specifically issued orders that boots are to be highly shined for guard mount."
Muller sneered. "I'm no parade ground martinet. I'm a parachute infantryman, por Dios, and I'm going to look like one. I am ready for combat, not prancing about on a parade ground."
Punzarron threw a punch, but Muller deftly ducked it while handing off his rifle to the man next to him. The suboficial tried again, but Muller was faster, slamming his fist into the ex-legionnaire's jaw. Punzarron went down but quickly got back to his feet, charging his opponent. Muller was ready and responded with a combination of hooks and uppercuts that sent Punzarron to the dirt once more. This time when the Portuguese sprang to his feet, the had a knife in his right hand.
Muller stepped back, grabbing his rifle. "This is a pelea entre soldados--a soldier's fight--there is no place for a knife here. We are not thugs brawling in a tavern."
"There were no gentlemanly rules for fighting in the Spanish Foreign Legion," Punzarron said. "So you either continue to fight or give up."
"I am not going to fight like a street hoodlum," Muller said. "So shoot me with your rifle:' Punzarron challenged.
"I told you I am a soldier," Muller said. "I will not murder a superior officer."
"Then you give up?"
"I do not give up," Muller insisted. "I quit out of disgust!"
Punzarron laughed in triumph. "Es el mismo--it is the same." He slipped his knife back into its hiding place in his pistol belt, then called the guards to attention. After facing them to the left, he marched them off for posting.
Over on the thatched veranda of the headquarters but Generalisimo Jose Maria de Castillo y Plato stood with Teniente-Coronel Jeronimo Busch. They had observed the altercation between Punzarron and Muller. Busch took the cigar out of his mouth. "I am not so sure the customs and traditions of the Spanish Foreign Legion should be applied in the Falangist forces, mi generalisimo. These men are all noncommissioned officers."
"Strict discipline for both soldiers and civilians will be the norm in the Dictadura Fascista de Falangia, Coronel Busch."
"I agree that many of our men are being put into excellent physical condition under Suboficial Punzarron," Busch said. "And
they will set excellent examples when we begin filling the ranks with younger, inexperienced recruits. But such discipline could cause serious problems with South Americans?' He turned and looked at Castillo. "Allow me to respectfully point out that we are not as compliant as Europeans:'
"Compliance is an unpleasant word for obedience, Coronel Busch," Castillo said. "When used in its proper place, the expression puts the concept into a better light." He walked toward the door of the building. "Care to join me for a whiskey?"
"Con mucho gusto, mi generalisimo!"
.
5 DECEMBER
0200 HOURS LOCAL
BRANNIGAN'S Brigands came into the attack area in a double column, moving easily across the savannah with the darkness brightened to green hues in the night vision goggles. As they reached the point where the Odd Couple stood, the First Assault Section peeled off to the north to take up positions, while Senior Chief Buford Dawkins's Second Assault Section went south. Wild Bill Brannigan and his Command Element gathered around Mike Assad and Dave Leibowitz as the others continued on to the battle line.
Brannigan checked his watch, then spoke into the AN/PRC-126. "Brigand One and Brigand Two, this is Brigand. Move your teams forward to your firing positions. Make sure you place the SAW gunners where they can do the most good. Out."
The detachment began arranging itself for the coming firefight.
.
SARGENTO Antonio Muller sat cross-legged at his guard post, still seething over the knife-pulling by Punzarron. That hijo de la chingada portugues was going to have to be taught a severe lesson. He would learn the hard way that the Old World mierda of Europe wasn't going to work in South America; especially the ways of that goddamn Foreign Legion the son of a bitch served in over in Morocco.
Muller raised the Spanish-manufactured Vista-Nocturna binoculars to his eyes and used its night vision capability to survey his area of responsibility on the perimeter. Suddenly a trio of armed men rose out of the grass to his direct front, moving a few meters toward him before dropping back to the ground. Muller went directly to his LASH, raising Punzarron. "Alarms! Unknown armed men approaching the garrison limits."
Punzarron, who had been dozing in the adjutant's office of the headquarters hut, leaped to his feet and rushed out to the veranda where the alarm gong hung. Following Legion custom, he began banging it to call the camp to arms.
.
THE BATTLE
THE sounds of a banging gong and men shouting rolled across the savannah. Brannigan grabbed the ANIPRC-126 to contact the section and team leaders. He ignored proper radio transmission procedures as he ordered, "Open fire!"
Immediately salvos of automatic fire sparked from the SEALs' positions, slapping into the Falangist camp. The SAWs, employed by Bruno Puglisi and Joe Miskoski, sent out sweeping volleys at the rate of 725 rounds a minute. Even with a carefully applied delivery of fire bursts of six bullets at a time, the magazines emptied quickly. Puglisi and Joe, like the others, had no visual targets and were forced to keep their individual areas of fire covered by shooting blindly into the enemy camp.
.
TENIENTE-CORONEL Jeronimo Busch had slipped into his boots and grabbed both the Star 9-millimeter submachine gun and ammo harness at about the same instant that Punzarron hit that gong for the third time. He rushed outside, meeting Castillo on the veranda. Both realized they had absolutely no idea of where to go. But an agile cabo suddenly appeared to lead them to some slit trenches at the side of the building. Within moments a thoroughly terrified Ignacio Perez joined them. The little adjutant said nothing as he huddled into a fetal position in the dirt.
Toledo, his capitemes and noncommissioned officers were now at their positions as they had practiced during countless training drills. A good rate of rifle fire was pouring outward at the attackers, backed up by a trio of machine guns.
.
THE incoming hurricane of flying steel pounding into the SEAL positions grew with each passing moment. Bullets whined and cracked through the air around the Americans, some clipping the taller blades of grass. It was obvious to everyone that the enemy had night vision equipment and was well prepared to deal with sneak attacks, especially those that happened during the hours of darkness. But like the SEALs, this evening's violence made it impossible for them to deliver accurate fire.
Brannigan knew the tiger was now tested, and he was tough, efficient and professional. Now was the time to break contact. The Skipper thought quickly, almost instinctively reaching the decision to withdraw fire teams from the ends first to leave the center of his battle line as strong as possible. He once more grabbed the radio handset. "Fire Team Delta, this is Brigand. Break contact and withdraw a hundred meters to the rear. For God's sake keep you heads down! The incoming fire is as thick as swarms of hornets. Out!"
.
COMANDANTE Javier Toledo had been informed minutes before by Capitan Roberto Argento that there was no-incoming on the east side of the camp. He ordered the Argentine officer to move his section over to the west side to add to the firepower in that area. Now Argento's men were interspaced with those of Capitanes Silber and Platas. The rate of outgoing fire was increasing dramatically, giving confidence to the Falangists.
Teniente-Coronel Jeronimo Busch didn't like lying in the slit trench. Cowering during a firefight wasn't part of his Prussian-Chilean heritage. He slipped into the harness with the extra forty-round magazines, pulling the night vision goggles out of their pouch on the shoulder strap. The Chilean gripped the submachine gun and leaped from the hole in the dirt. He rushed across the bullet-swept open space to join the fighters on the perimeter as he pulled the goggles down over his eyes.
Busch threw himself down between a pair of riflemen and began kicking off fire bursts at the muzzle flashes blinking rapidly from the attacker's side of the battle. After a few moments, the paratrooper officer noted a marked less fire on the right flank. He immediately realized that the attackers were in the process of breaking contact. He scrambled to his feet and rushed to that side of the line, once more diving to the ground when he reached an advantageous spot for some serious shooting. This time he carefully regulated his pulls on the trigger, sending controlled fire bursts toward the enemy. Within a minute he was aware there was no one to his direct front. Now was the time to pull a one-man maneuver to outflank the bastardos. Busch jumped up yet again, rushing forward to seek combat.
.
BRANNIGAN ordered Bravo Fire Team to pull out of the fight. Connie Concord led his men toward the rear to join Cruiser and Bruno Puglisi. Cruiser yelled at the Bravos, "Hold up!"
Connie halted the men. "Aye, sir! What's the word?"
"Let's kick out some more salvos before we break contact," Cruiser said. "We don't want them to feel too confident about leaving the safety of their camp."
The Bravos, with Puglisi playing the SAW like a musical instrument, raked the area to the front with bullets. As they laid down the fire, the Command Element was heading off to join the others who had already pulled out of the line.
.
BUSCH was now crawling through the grass, paying no attention to the fact that he was headed into some of the Falangist fire as he worked his way down the line formerly held by the attackers. He finally spotted what appeared to be five men firing in the direction of the garrison. They suddenly leaped up to pull back.
Busch fired a long burst toward them, damning himself for not having arrived fifteen seconds earlier. He was rewarded with the sight of an attacker bowled over to the ground by the simultaneous strike of at least two of the 9-millimeter slugs. Suddenly a couple of the fallen man's pals turned on him, cutting loose with a wicked volley of return fire. Busch had to scamper backward to find cover as bullets plowed the grass and dirt around him.
.
LIEUTENANT Jim Cruiser was the man hit. At almost the exact moment he collapsed to the ground, Lamar Taylor and Paulo Cinzento each grabbed him by an arm. He cussed in pain as they dragged him back toward the rear.
When they reached the rest of the detachment, he had gone numb.
Brannigan rushed over to his 2IC. "Can you walk, Jim?" "Let me see:' Cruiser said. "Maybe if--oh shit! I can't feel my legs, Bill!"
The hospital corpsman, James Bradley, joined them. He knelt down and gave the wounded officer an examination in the eerie illumination of the night vision goggles. As he applied a field compress to the wound, he asked, "Can you move your legs, sir?"
Cruiser shook his head. "No."
Brannigan turned to Lamar and Paulo. "Form for a chair carry. We've got to get the hell out of here."
The two SEALs slung their CAR-15s and reached out to grab each other's wrists to form a "chair" of their forearms. Brannigan and James picked Cruiser up and set him on the two SEALs' strong arms.
Guerilla Warfare (2006) Page 7