by J E Higgins
The young peasant Rios had employed to observe the Iranian camp feared mercenaries would not be sufficient to fend off the invaders. She took it upon herself to alert the townsmen to the army and their perceived intentions building over the border. Mancha had since been training the townspeople in preparation for this night.
Diego Mancha looked his ragged army over. “Everyone!” He opened in a smooth commanding voice that immediately captured everyone’s attention. “You can hear the gunfire in the distance.” The Patron turned slightly in the direction of the battle. Turning back to the crowd he said, “Right now, the battle is being waged between a group Pietro is helping, against a much larger group of invaders trying to sneak into our country.” The Patron paused to look at the people before him. Even in the darkness, he could read the looks on their faces. They were nervous but willing. “The police are in no position to stop them and neither is the army. That leaves us. If we don’t stop them, it will be our lands and our homes they attack first. Are we ready?” Mancha’s question was answered with a loud chorus of cheers.
Calling on men who had been soldiers, Mancha turned to Pietro. Pietro immediately started down the road to direct the ragged force toward where the battle was taking place. With Mancha in the lead, the rest of the group followed.
Klaas Vanderhook could already see the beginning stages of the battle turning. The Arabs had by now had headed to the trees to take cover behind rock piles to begin returning fire. Initially, the fire was erratic, a sure sign that the Arabs were shooting blind. But now the shots were becoming more concentrated and accurate. Looking at his watch, he figured that in another two minutes, he would have his team fall back and break contact. Sweat poured from his head and soaked through his balaclava. Adrenaline was rushing through his system. He was feeling the exhilaration of the battle he was so addicted to.
One of his men, a Colombian, manning the ammo belt feeding the machine gun called out that the box was nearly empty. The barrel was turning red from the heat of so much hot lead blasting through it. The end was nearing.
Suddenly the air grew thick with a powerful pungent odor that instantly overpowered the mercenaries’ senses, followed by a blinding flash and deafening explosion. Seeing nothing but darkness and hearing only echoes, Vanderhook was at a loss to understand what was happening. The only sense that had not betrayed him was his feeling of sharp objects cutting into his shoulder and lower body.
His hearing gradually returned to the sounds of gunfire; only much closer than it had been before. This time, it was not coming from below, but from above. The sound of men shouting in Arabic was coming from only a few feet away. The sound of his machine gun had stopped. He called out to his men but received no answer. Reaching out, he grabbed the gunner’s torso. He only had to touch him to realize he was feeling a lifeless corpse. More bullets tore into the former Dutch marine, they cut into his arm and thigh. Finally, a sharp blow slammed into his head. He slumped over into the dirt ─ a lifeless corpse along with the bodies of his men.
Dayan had seen and heard the flash of the grenade as it exploded near Vanderhook’s position. The machine gun suddenly stopping told the Israeli all he needed to know ─ the Dutch marine and his team were dead. It was now apparent the Arabs were moving quickly in a counter-attack. They were well led and seizing the initiative.
Time had run out. Turning to face his men, whose outlines he could only make out from the flashes of gunfire coming from their weapons, Dayan screamed his commands to fall back. He heard the order repeated by Ripley, then Perez. The men began to fall back from their positions.
Soon after they slid deeper into the tree line, they heard more gunfire, this time coming from their flank. Looking through his optics, Dayan saw a skirmish line of shadowed figures approaching from their flank, maybe ten at the most. They spread out into a battle line intermingled with the trees. They stood off far enough to be largely out of the line of fire from their comrades.
Then, the Israeli felt a slight thump just a foot or so from his leg. Quickly understanding what the object was, Dayan rolled over behind a thick buildup of dirt and pressed his eyes shut. The blast was ear-shattering! Even with his eyes shut he could sense the instant flash of blinding white light. Opening his eyes, he was relieved to see that he still had his night vision, but his ears rang, and he could only hear echoes.
Wasting no time, the Israeli grabbed his weapon. Turning in the direction of the newly formed flank of attackers, he began opening fire. His shots were in the general direction, but he doubted if he hit anyone. As his hearing began to return, he realized that the main body across the clearing had ceased firing. The flanking force of Arabs continued advancing. Like well-trained soldiers, the Arabs moved, covered by fire, with every other man moving a few feet forward while the ones behind laid down covering fire to keep the enemy heads down. The flankers continued this assault in a slow methodical leapfrog-like movement, making it nearly impossible for the mercenaries to lay down adequate return fire.
The enemy was closing. The mercenaries tried to fall back. Whatever damage they had inflicted would have to suffice. The flanking attackers were about to overrun them. Ripley and a couple others had slipped next to Dayan attempting to lay counter-fire. The Israeli shouted the command to withdraw. His order resulted in a chaotic gathering of men fighting for their lives trying to escape. Their gunfire was erratic as each mercenary fired wildly in the general direction of their pursuers while trying to back their way out through the vegetation and uneven ground.
Major Akim could follow the retreating enemy’s gunfire across the clearing. Noting the distance they were from his men attacking their flank, he radioed the flanking team to stand fast. They held their ground and continued firing. Directing his main force to the location of the ambushers, Akim ordered a full assault. In a swift, coordinated movement, his main body began to move from the trees.
“Maintain cover by fire, every other man!!” the Iranian shouted, as his forces moved into the clearing. Every other man fired a few shots, lowered their weapons and moved forward, while the men on their sides provided cover fire. The bursts were quick ─ three to five shots at a time. It was effective at keeping the enemy disoriented.
Dayan and his team were now receiving fire from both sides. It was all they could do to fire blindly in both directions while attempting to work their way through the thickets behind them. Trying to balance while firing was nearly impossible. Somehow Dayan and his few remaining team members managed to find a soft spot in the vegetation. From there, he could see a long line of dark figures moving across the clearing. The silhouettes were illuminated by the hail of fire they delivered.
A hand reached across and grabbed the Israeli in a firm controlling grip. Turning around, he saw the outlined face of Darren Ripley. Even in the darkness, the Welshman’s facial expression could be read well enough to see he was desperate.
“Come on!” Ripley shouted to his commander. “Everyone who’s left has made it through. Follow me!” With that, the Welshman jumped into a line of bushes with Dayan following closely behind. Twigs and leaves smacked the faces of the men, grabbing at their clothes as they fought their way through. It was on Dayan’s mind and the minds of his team that they would be out in the open trying to escape with the Arabs close behind.
A sudden stop by Ripley brought the Israeli up short. “Someone’s coming,” Ripley whispered. “They’re approaching from the road.”
With his rifle in the ready position, Dayan took the lead. Moving to where one of the Colombians had taken up point, the Israeli followed the man’s gaze to a collection of people moving in their direction. They advanced in a haphazard tactical line formation, and a closer look revealed rifles in their hands.
Not sure what to make of the situation, Dayan and his men moved up, ready to engage. Were these more Arabs surrounding them? All sorts of possibilities raced through the minds of the mercenaries as they tried to develop a reaction. No matter, the sheer numbers indicated that
whatever decision they took, death was inevitable.
“Don’t shoot the Brazilian soldiers,” a familiar voice shouted out, leading some of the incoming figures. “They are the friends I told you about. Is that you, Middle-Easterner?” the young peasant asked.
“Yes, it’s us. The ones your boss told you to lead here?” Dayan clarified.
Darkened figures started to trot through the bushes toward the mercenaries. Dayan and his men were able to make out the image of the peasant who guided them. The young man was excited. “These are my friends. They are the local citizen’s militia. I’ve told them about these invaders, and they’ve come to help.”
At that point, a tall lean figure moved up to join the conversation. “Gentlemen,” he opened in a quiet and polished tone. “It looks as though you need some help.” The figure spoke with the voice of someone groomed in the world of elite society. Diego Mancha, looked beyond the mercenaries as he listened to the collection of approaching gunfire. Turning to some men following him, Mancha ordered them to get their troops online and prepare to move forward.
At once the men turned around and quickly moved back to their waiting group. Within minutes, they were dispersing from their tactical groups, moving into a single line facing the mercenaries. Another group moved off to the side forming another line along the far flank.
“I appreciate what I think you are doing for my country,” Mancha said to the Middle-Easterner standing before him. “Now, I think it is time for my people to fight. It looks like you have seen enough action for one evening.”
Dayan was unsure what to do. He looked at the young peasant who nodded approvingly. The sound of gunfire was getting closer with a few bullets striking nearby trees. With few men left and running low on ammunition, it was an easy decision for the Israeli. Waving his men on, Dayan nodded to the peasant and Mancha, pressing on to disappear into the night.
“Hold your fire!!” Major Akim shouted as he looked around noticing that he had not seen any return fire in several minutes. “Hold your fire!!” he shouted again. Gradually, the shooting became less and less until it was dead quiet. Akim and his force moved through the clearing. Advancing to the tree line, they met up with the flanking force that had held back to avoid friendly fire.
Ordering his men to a line, the Iranian pressed his men forward. A few steps into the trees, the Arabs were climbing over the mounds of their attackers’ fighting positions. Akim knew they were the bodies of their ambushers. He saw three corpses, from what he could tell from his findings and the comments of some of his men, there were other casualties.
Commanding his men not to waste time with the bodies, Akim reminded them there were still enemies in the vicinity. The Arabs pressed on, maintaining their combat line, continuing their sweep as they progressed back into the tree line.
Diego Mancha had the composure of a professional soldier. He had seen a great deal of combat in his years as an officer in the army. That experience taught him that patience and timing were often decisive factors. His hope was that his people would prove steady, given what little training they had received in comparison to who they were about to engage. His question would soon be answered.
It wasn’t long before the sounds of twigs cracking and bushes rustling were heard nearby. It was easy to conclude that whoever they were up against, they were coming in force. Gripping his Steyr Aug rifle, an informal going away present at his retirement, Mancha prepared himself mentally. Despite his wanting to give the order, he waited. He needed to catch these invaders at their most vulnerable to ensure a quick victory. Otherwise, his people might not be able to win a prolonged fight against a more highly trained enemy. He knelt down in the bushes and prayed no one would get nervous and fire early ─ hoped they would trust his judgment.
Less than ten meters away from his position, Mancha watched as the bushes opened up revealing a collection of combatants in a rough looking tactical line. The moment had come. “Fire!!” the Patron cried as he let loose with his rifle into the line of me before him. His firing was soon joined by the noisy reports of guns opening up in a chorus.
Major Akim was surprised by the sudden explosion of gunfire that lit the night before him. His mind raced, as he realized this was not the few irritants he had fought only moments ago. The line of pale white sparks lit a line that seemed to go on forever. Bullets buzzed around him and his troops like angry wasps from a broken hive. The sheer force overwhelmed him and his men, who were being cut down one after another. “Return fire!!” the Iranian commanded. His men attempted to oblige. For a moment, a line of equal brightness emerged from their other side. The whole battlefield lit up.
It was a brief but intense ten seconds of fighting before Akim realized his men were outmatched. The battle was lost when more hostile gunfire came from the flanks, spraying into the bushes at his men.
“Fall back!! Fall back!!” the Iranian screamed at the top of his lungs. He could hear his men withdrawing slowly back into the thickets, maintaining their alternating fire and fall back tactical retreat.
Diego Mancha noticed what was going on and at once ordered his forces to move forward pressing the retreating enemy. Not wavering in the slightest, the villagers rose to their feet and moved on their opponents in a clumsy leapfrog fire and maneuver advance of their own. They were determined, as their commander had warned, not to give their adversary a chance to regroup or take cover.
Approaching the clearing, Major Akim could find no means by which to mount a counter-attack. Even if he could, the enemy had proven to be too large and was aggressively pursuing. With no other choice, the Iranian reluctantly called for his men to continue to retreat. Fighting through the clearing to the bushes, the Arabs gradually broke off from the attack as they melted into the vegetation and began racing back along the trails from which they had come.
Akim was almost the last man, as he watched the gunfire of the new opponents moving from the trees into the clearing. A hardened soldier through and through, the Iranian was not going to be the first to run and leave his soldiers. Grabbing the side of his belt, he pulled a single pineapple grenade from it. It was maybe three pounds, but at that moment, it felt like a cinder block. Pulling the pin, Akim gripped the last safety tightly. He waited until he could see the attackers out in the clearing. He didn’t have to wait long. Shadowy figures soon appeared and began walking tentatively out onto the open ground.
With all his strength, the Iranian lobbed the grenade. It flew a fair distance before exploding in midair, right in front of the pursuing line. The screams and shouts of a completely surprised foe told the seasoned combat veteran all he needed. Akim leaped to his feet and began running down the goat trail toward the border.
At the edge of the clearing, Mancha called his forces to a halt. He could see the bodies spread across the ground, and the lack of return fire told him that the enemy had seen enough.
Chapter 49
The explosion at the seaside resort district in Carrasco was not debilitating to the country’s overall economy. But in one of the most exclusive neighborhoods in Montevideo, the attack was as earthshaking as an earthquake to the many of the country’s wealthiest citizens who lived there. No one had come forward to claim responsibility for the atrocity that claimed twenty-nine lives and caused dozens of severe injuries. Nevertheless, rumors and aspersions planted on recently developed, unofficial blog sites intimated that the attack was the result of a new wave of left-wing violence aimed at punishing the wealthy elites of the country.
For Oskar Straudner, the incident could not have been better timed. The bomb, which had been crammed into a school backpack and left close to a beach party of teenagers from private schools. He played his role well as the concerned government official listening sympathetically to the mob of angry parents demanding action. His actions were those of a man appalled at the violence and sincerely concerned for his people and the welfare of his country. His mind, however, was intoxicated with the excitement and self-satisfaction of a man enj
oying his genius ─ his ability to manipulate everything to forward his agenda.
As the collection of bankers, business moguls, and old money sat around the table hysterically demanding action, Straudner continued to call for calm and diplomacy. All of which only served to heighten their already enraged emotions. Their demands were simple. Straudner had a duty to save the country and that meant taking any drastic measures that would bring back order and safety. Many were decrying the impotence of the government’s response. Others were offering to lend financial support for the creation of their own vigilante force or, better yet, support the one that had already started taking action, like the group that killed the former labor president. He tried to downplay all of these ideas, as he promoted himself as a humble peacekeeper.
In his mind, he thought of how to applaud Ulbrict Laudman, who had planned the bombing. It had masterfully achieved its intended purpose, tipping many who had previously maintained a reserved attitude to handling violence, to advocating that drastic action was essential. Straudner couldn’t help but think that Laudman himself felt a feeling of redemption. A devoted communist, Laudman probably saw killing so many children of privilege as a heroic act. It had to be redeeming for the old German spy capping everything else he had done thus far for his master.
In any case, the bombing, while a calamity for so many, had given Straudner the last brick he needed. Rising slowly from his seat, he looked around the room. His action spoke volumes as the chorus of hysterical screams and arguments was now completely silent.