Guerilla Warfare (2006) s-2 Read online

Redhawk peered through the dense, waving vegetation, suddenly catching sight of an older man with gray hair. He was middle-aged but obviously in good physical condition. The Oklahoman aimed carefully, then slowly squeezed the trigger. The Falangist's head jerked violently as his skull exploded in a red shower of brains and blood.

  Redhawk crawled off, turning in another direction for no other reason than he felt some sort of vibrations in that area. After going ten meters he discovered he had eased into a position behind another enemy soldier. A quick aim, and a pull on the trigger. The strike of the bullet hit the back of the man's head so hard that his face was slammed into the ground.

  The SEAL now moved at a right angle, easing down into a shallow dip in the ground. When he reached the other side of the depression he was suddenly looking into the face of a wide-eyed Falangist. Redhawk, in an instinctive reflex, let off an unaimed round, and the guy's features caved inward with the bullet strike.

  A gruff command was shouted in Spanish, and a sudden salvo of bullets whipped above The SEAL's head. He went as flat as he could as several volleys came so close he could feel the shock waves from the bullets as they whipped over him. Then the shooting stopped as quickly as it began. Redhawk remained plastered to the ground in the silence. Not even an insect buzzed.

  Brannigan's voice came over the LASH. "They've pulled out. On your feet!"

  The SEALs gathered together, going to each of the three corpses to check them for possible intelligence. But none bore documents of any kind, not even I. D. cards or tags.

  Chad Murchison looked carefully at the second man Redhawk had killed. "I say! This fellow is rather mature, is he not?"

  "All three of 'em are," Frank Gomez said. "Do you remember what they told us in Isolation? These guys are all noncommissioned officers and officers. They're veterans."

  Brannigan checked the eastern horizon with his binoculars. "There could be more of them coming this way." He lowered the viewing device. "Redhawk, we'll head back to the cache. Follow a different azimuth than the one we used to get out here."

  "Aye, sir!"

  The patrol fell back into its march formation as the Native American took the lead.

  .

  ABOVE THE SAVANNAH

  18 DECEMBER

  0500 HOURS LOCAL

  CORON EL Francisco Martinez sat in the copilot's seat of the old H-34 transport helicopter. He was the commander of the western sector of the Policia Fronterizathe Border Police--and his men had nicknamed him El Garron--the Big Claw--after a well-known Bolivian wrestler who was always the bad guy in his matches.

  Two more helicopters followed the colonel's, and both were filled with eight heavily armed policemen. They had traveled from their usual post on the Bolivian-Brazilian border to take care of a matter involving some squatters. The orders had come down outside of normal police-channels, and as far as Coronel Martinez was concerned, that was a carte blanche to handle the situation any way he wanted.

  And El Garron hated people of African ancestry.

  When the choppers came in, each took a side of the village in a triangular formation. The well-trained policemen quickly leaped from the aircraft and formed up in skirmish lines, their Uzi 9-millimeter submachine guns h fully loaded thirty-round magazines. Each agent also had four more attached to his shoulder harness.

  El Garron knew the noise of the incoming helicopters would have awakened all the residents of the tiny community, and he strode toward the thatched huts to find the headman.

  Joao Cabecinho walked out into the countryside from the village. His people, who had stumbled out of their residences, stood around in a collective feeling of dread. The sight of armed police was a sure sign of immediate misery and disappointment in their lives.

  El Garron stood with legs spread and his arms folded across his chest as he waited for the village chief to come up to him. The police officer sneered down at the small black man. "Born dia, preto," he said in Portuguese.

  Cabecinho knew there was nothing to gain with defiance. He noted the three stars on the rank patch held to the Bolivian's jacket by Velcro. "Good morning, Coronel. How may I serve you?"

  "You may serve me by directing everyone who lives in your village to go out on the opposite side from here," El Garron said. "One of my men will be waiting to direct you to the exact spot."

  Cabecinho, with no choice but to obey, turned to his people, passing on the instructions in a low, sad tone of voice. This was the one thing they dreaded would happen from the first day they arrived on the Gran Chaco. All hope was gone now. The people moved slowly and hesitantly until the policemen charged in, shouting and gesturing angrily.

  Ten minutes later the entire population of a hundred men, women and children stood close together some twenty meters from the village limits. The disappointment and frustration showed plainly on their faces as the knowledge their plans and hard work for starting a new life in the Gran Chaco had come to an end.

  El Garron checked the positions of his men, gesturing to move a squad a little closer. When all was ready, he allowed himself almost a full minute before getting down to business. After a deep breath, he bellowed out the order.

  "Tiren--fire!"

  Chapter 10

  THE GRAN CHACO

  FUERTE FRANCO

  20 DECEMBER

  CAMPAMENTO Astray was completely abandoned and left to the mercies of the elements. Even as the last man got aboard for the final helicopter lift to the new garrison, the thatched buildings looked as if the process of rot and disintegration was already beginning.

  The entire Grupo de Batalla took over four square acres of land ten kilometers to the southwest. The heavily jungled Selva Verde Mountains could easily be seen in the distance. This new stronghold was designed to have a linked series of bunkers and other field fortifications that would be covered by tiers of logs and earth under camouflaged netting. The construction had already begun, and the sounds of backhoes, picks and shovels filled the area.

  However, none of the Falangists were involved in this toil except as supervisors. They were all officers and noncommissioned officers who by military tradition and regulations were above laboring like peones. The problem of a work crew had been solved two days earlier by the Argentine Capitan Luis Bonicelli. He used Falangist members and fellow travelers in his country's Federal Police to arrange to have two dozen convicts flown in for the backbreaking work. These prisoners were under life sentences at a miserable penitentiary down in the wilds of Patagonia. They qualified for this dubious honor by being strong and robust for the grinding toil. Additionally, each of these men was picked for his lack of connections to the outside world. They were abandoned and forgotten men, already considered dead by family and friends.

  After the chosen felons were culled from the general prison population, they were herded into the backs of trucks under tight security for the trip to the airport in Califate. Upon arrival they were hustled aboard an Argentine Air Force C-60 Transall already loaded with tools and a trio of backhoes for mechanical digging.

  This was the first day of their labor, but remarkable progress was being made because of the brutal supervision of Suboficial Adolf Punzarron and Sargento Antonio Muller. The periodic appearance of Coronel Jeronimo Busch contributed greatly to the efficiency of the effort.

  The first three bunkers constructed were those of the estado mayor--staff. The primary one was the Centro de Mando--the Command Bunker--where Generalisimo Jose Maria de Castillo y Plato maintained his headquarters. The Centro de Inteligencia--Intelligence Bunker--was used by capitan Diego Tippelskirch, while Suboficial Ignacio Perez maintained his files and supplies in the Centro de Administracion--the Administration Bunker. These facilities, with firing slits, were like the castle keeps in old medieval castles. They could also be the place to make a last stand in case of a massive attack. The bunkers were in a triangular arrangement on the high ground in the center of the fortress.

  The construction of Fuerte Franco moved along rapidly and efficient
ly, well ahead of schedule.

  .

  CENTRO DE INTELIGENCIA

  THIS was be the brain center of the Grupo de Batalla's operations, where all incoming and outgoing information would be processed and logged by Capitan. Diego Tippelskirch and his staff of experienced sargentos.

  Just prior to the move from the camp to the fortress, Tippelskirch had received some new radios through operatives the generalisimo had in the signals staff in the Spanish Foreign Legion. One RMAL (Radio Militar Alcance Largo) long-range radio was placed in the Centro de Inteligencia, while several medium-range RMAM (Radio Militar Alcance Mediano) radios were distributed among the subunits of the Grupo de Batalla. When the commo gear was installed, Tippelskirch wasted no time in making contact with his numerous agents within the ranks of the Argentine, Bolivian and Chilean armed forces. New call signs and procedures were quickly worked out, and the Falangists were now ready to operate as a fighting outfit with superb communications capabilities that were tuned in, net organized and oriented to the nth degree.

  .

  1000 HOURS LOCAL

  THE sargento on the RMAL radio took down the transmission that came across in five-letter word groups. He recognized the "fist" of the other man through the dit and dah pattern of the transmission. The sender was an old pal from the Infanteria de Marina where the two had served together for some ten years.

  As soon as the other operator signed off, the sargento ripped the message from from the pad. He swiveled his chair to face Capitan Tippelskirch's desk just behind him. "Mensaje apremiante, mi capitan," the sargento said. "An urgent message."

  Tippelskirch took it, then worked the dial on the field safe at his feet. After pulling out his code book, he set about deciphering the garbled missive. It took ten minutes to decode it, and when it was in plain Spanish he smiled to himself. It was just as he suspected. The intelligence officer slipped on his field cap and left the Communications Center.

  He walked directly over to the Centro de Mando where a quartet of convicts worked at pulling a camouflage net over the top. Tippelskirch went down to the entrance and stepped inside, saluting the Falangist leader Castillo.

  "I have received a most meaningful message, mi generalisimo," Tippelskirch reported.

  "Congratulations," the generalisimo said. "It would appear your Intelligence Bunker is already up to speed."

  "Indeed," Tippelskirch said proudly. "It comes through a mole I have inside the national security office in Santiago. He informs me he has solid proof that the Petroleo Colmo Company here on the Gran Chaco has strong American ties. Some messages to and from them have been relayed to a known CIA facility in Colombia."

  "That is a most significant and useful thing to know," the generalisimo said. "I think there are many ways we can work this to our advantage."

  "I smell the Yanqui influence all over this," Tippelskirch said. "No doubt of it!"

  "Now we know for sure our bandido foe is an American force," the generalisimo said. "The more knowledge one has of the enemy, the more advantageous, no?"

  "Such intelligence is worth a thousand men, mi generalisimo."

  .

  1600 HOURS LOCAL

  THE helicopter landing pad was no more than a quickly cleared area of land twenty meters north of the headquarters bunkers. The pilot could easily d unevenness of the ground, and he lowered the aircraft slowly until its wheels gently touch down. The first man off was Capitan Roberto Argento. He turned to his sargento, shouting over the noise of the engine. "Get over to the Centro de Inteligencia and tell capitan Tippelskirch to meet me at headquarters immediately!"

  As the noncommissioned officer rushed off, the five men who made up the rest of the patrol disembarked, walking rapidly away from the helicopter. Casual observers could see that something was wrong from the way they stuck together, talking softly among themselves as they made their way to their unit bunker.

  Within a couple of minutes Tippelskirch joined Argento at the entrance to the headquarters, and both went into the fortification to speak with Castillo. The generalisimo was concerned by the expression on Argento's face.

  "Mi generalisimo," Argento said, saluting. "We have come back from a visit to the village of Novida. We found all the people dead. Men, women and children. All shot by automatic fire. Some who had survived the preliminary bursts had been dispatched by single shots to the head from pistols."

  Castillo was so shocked he quickly stood up, almost bumping his head on the low bunker ceiling. "Who could have done such a thing?"

  Tippelskirch smiled. "I think perhaps the CIA."

  "We could see where three helicopters had landed," Argento said. "The killers must have surrounded the place."

  Castillo sat back down, looking at Tippelskirch. "So! You think the CIA did it, eh?"

  Tippelskirch shook his head. "Actually I doubt it," he admitted. "The villagers were illegal squatters. I imagine Bolivian police killed everyone, knowing nobody would really care." He boldly leaned on the generalisimo's desk in his enthusiasm. "But we could make it look like Americans did it. Or at least say that they did it. Of course, it would just be our word against anyone who wished to contradict us."

  Argento was puzzled. "What is all this about norteamericanos?"

  "We have solid information," Tippelskirch said, "that the Petroleo Colmo Company is in league with the Americans. I think they are CIA operating in South America like their Air America did in Southeast Asia."

  "Of course!" Castillo exclaimed. "It all fits."

  "We need to get some photographs," Tippelskirch said. "Lots of photographs. I have a journalist friend who works for a right-wing newspaper here in Bolivia. He would be more than happy to write up articles favoring the Falangist movement and its aims. Especially when he can say that Americans massacred a village of innocents."

  "I'll leave that up to you, Capitan Tippelskirch," Castillo said. "Meanwhile, I'm going to turn the problem of Petroleo Colmo over to Coronel Busch. He will know how to hunt down and destroy those damn helicopters of theirs."

  "We are closing in on victory," Tippelskirch said confidently.

  "I have more good news," Castillo said. "We are getting in twelve more men as reinforcements. It is still just a trickle, but when the time is right, it will become a flood."

  Tippelskirch turned to Argento. "I'm getting a camera. Round up your patrol for a return trip. to Novida:'

  .

  STATE BEPARTMENT WASHINGTON, D. C.

  21 DECEMBER

  0130 HOURS LOCAL

  UNDERSECRETARY Carl Joplin yawned irritably as he strode down the hall. He was a creature of habit, and the early phone call that had gotten him out of bed an hour and a half early had already upset his day. He had received curt instructions to report ASAP to Secretary of State Benjamin Bellingham's office.

  When he stepped into the receptionist's station, the lady generally on duty was not there. Instead Durwood Cooper, Bellingham's always uptight chief administrative assistant, was waiting for him.

  "The secretary is inside," Cooper said, using the same brusque manner of the earlier phone call. He turned to lead Joplin back to the interior office.

  When Joplin was ushered into Bellingham's presence, he was surprised to see the White House Chief of Staff Arlene Entienne also there. This Cajun-African-American was a beautiful green-eyed woman with dark brown hair. The features of both ethnicities blended well, giving her an exotic appearance. It was said that 90 percent of the men in Washington were love with her, while the other 10 percent were gays who nevertheless admired both her loveliness and taste in clothing.

  Joplin gave her smile. "Hello, Arlene. I didn't expect to see you today. But it's a real pleasure, believe me." "Always the diplomat, hey, Carl?"

  Bellingham was impatient. "Sit down, Carl. We have a real bad situation down there in that South American operation you organized."

  Joplin knew it meant big trouble when the current state of affairs was dropped in his lap. When things were going well, Bel
lingham claimed all responsibilities. They were his projects and his alone.

  Bellingham continued. "The population of a small village of illegal Brazilian immigrants was massacred by persons unknown. The crime was discovered by Bolivian Federal Police. Their intelligence-gathering apparatus has informed them that these people were sympathetic toward the Falangists." He paused, giving Joplin a meaningful look. "Those are the antagonists of the special operations group you sent down there, are they not? What do you know about it?"

  "Nothing," Joplin replied, disturbed. "This is the first I've heard of it."

  Entienne interjected, "The White House has not been fully informed on this particular mission. Does it involve Army Special Forces?"

  "They are a small Navy SEAL detachment," Joplin explained. "A total of twenty-one men. One of them was wounded in the fighting and is now in the Balboa Naval Hospital in San Diego."

  "Would those SEALs be involved in the murders?" Bellingham asked straight out.

  "Not at all!" Joplin replied testily. "That group is made up of some of the best of the best. They are not the type to go postal and turn their weapons on unarmed civilians."

  Bellingham was not convinced. "God! I hope we don't have another My Lai as in Vietnam."

  "I will bet my reputation on Lieutenant Brannigan and his men," Joplin said. "They did not commit that atrocity."

  "I hope you're right:' Bellingham said. "This story can't be held under wraps much longer."

  A knock on the door interrupted the session, and Durwood Cooper stuck his head in. "Call for Ms. Entienne on line four."

  She reached over and picked up the phone as Bellingham punched the corresponding button. "Hello," Entienne said. "Yes. This early, huh? All right, I'll inform the secretary of state." She hung up and glanced over at Bellingham. "That was the White House. The Bolivian ambassador has lodged a covert protest about the massacre. Reliable sources have informed them it was done by Americans."

  Joplin gritted his teeth. "Did he say what Americans?"

  Entienne shook her head. "Only that the perpetrators were American. We can be thankful that the crime is not yet out in the open."