Guerilla Warfare (2006) s-2 Page 21
"Muchas gracias, mi generalisimo!" Ignacio exclaimed. He affected a salute, then made a passable about-face movement, marching out of the office and back into the tunnel.
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THE FOOTHILLS OF THE SELVA VERDE MOUNTAINS
14 JANUARY
0530 HOURS
THE EC-635 and SA-330 helicopters brought in the last lift of twenty-four men from Fuerte Franco. Now the entire attack force of seventy men and twenty-four convicts were assembled and ready to begin the assault on the mountain where the bandidos had holed up. Only twenty Falangists had been left behind in Fuerte Franco. These were men who were sick or recovering from injuries.
Every man in the operation--with the exception of the convicts--was fully briefed and knew what role he and his unit would play in the coming battle. These veterans did not have the bravado and optimism of young, unbloodied rookies. They fully realized the dangers and difficulties of attacking uphill in thick vegetation and were prepa conduct themselves as efficiently and bravely as possible under those conditions.
Generalisimo Castillo was in overall field command for what he hoped would be the last assault against the bandidos. Coronel Jeronimo Busch would take his equipo comando of Punzarron, Chaubere and Muller with him. This was what the Chilean paratrooper liked best. He was the type of soldiering officer who preferred the close-in, dirty and dangerous work in a small team to having overall command of a large force while standing back and directing the battle via radio and occasional helicopter flights. His three handpicked men were dedicated and fearless, perfectly matching their commander's qualities and mannerisms. He had been given carte blanche to do what he wanted during the battle.
Castillo planned on the first line of attack being the twenty-four convicts who would go into action on the east side. A special detachment of submachine gunners under the command of Capitan Pablo Gonzales would follow after them, ready to shoot down any of the criminals who hesitated or tried to run away. The convicts' equipment was basic, consisting of only canteens and ammo bandoleers while the rest of the Falangists carried full combat loads including Spanish M-5 hand grenades.
The second line of attack was under the overall command of Comandante Javier Toledo with Capita,' Francisco Silber. The third line of attack would be led by Comandante Gustavo Cappuzzo and Capital' Roberto Argento. They would move out with the fire support line as a group. When they reached the south side of the bandido position, the machine guns and mortars would drop out to set up their weapons, while the third line of attack moved around to the east side to launch their assault from that direction. Everyone's eyes opened wide at the sight of Ignacio Perez wearing his rucksack and web gear as he joined Capitan Tomas Platas at the fire support line.
The generalisimo sent the larger SA-330 chopper back, keeping the smaller EC-635 for observation flights during the battle. He made a commo check with his line commanders via the RMAM radios. All reported they were ready and in position, and Castillo gave the official order to begin the operation.
"Lanzen el ataque!"
Chapter 16
THE SELVA VERDE MOUNTAINS
FALANGIST FORCE
14 JANUARY
0545 HOURS
THE Argentine convicts were formed into two tight skirmish lines as they began their advance up the mountain toward the enemy on the west side of the battlefield. Each man had been given the opportunity to fire five rounds of his bolt-action Mauser rifle for familiarization. No instruction in proper aiming or the tactical employment of small arms in combat had been provided the amateur and reluctant soldiers.
Now, holding their old weapons at the ready with five rounds in the receiver and one in the chamber, they struggled up the steep terrain, already sweating heavily under the discomfort of the heat and humidity.
Gordo Pullini, in the middle of the front rank, glanced around at his gang, noting their expressions of uncertainty as they continued toward the objective. Some now carried the rifles in a way to push the clinging jungle plants aside that grasped at their clothing with nettles and vines.
Navajaso Coletti looked over at the gang chief. Nava was not a happy man. "This is some bad shit we've gotten into, jefe," he growled under his breath.
Capitan Pablo Gonzales, with a half-dozen men, followed the prisoners, keeping a close eye on them. Strict orders had been issued that any hesitancy or refusal to move would result in warning shots being fired over their heads. If that failed, offending men would be shot down without further comment. No more warnings, urgings or cursing; shoot to kill without mercy.
The higher the convicts climbed, the thicker the vegetation became until the two skirmish lines broke up as they labored through the briars and thorny jungle plants. Gonzales and his men were also having it tough, and the convicts disappeared and reappeared from sight as the assault continued through the trees and brush.
U P on the north side, the Second Echelon under Comandante Javier Toledo and Capitan Francisco Silber were also ascending the mountain toward the norteamericanos. The Falangists had stopped referring to their foe as bandidos. After the fight on the Rio Ancho, these Latin Americans recognized the enemy were also professional soldiers, and they were well equipped and armed. In spite of what the generalisimo said, this coming battle was going to be a tough fight with plenty of risk. There was no youthful arrogance among the noncommissioned officers.
The equipo comando, made up of Coronel Jeronimo Busch, Punzarron, Chaubere and Muller, was between the convicts and the Second Echelon, working their way into position from where they could launch independent raids on the enemy.
the mountain, heading for their attack position over on the west side. They were trailed by the Fire Support Echelon of mortars and machine guns commanded by Capitan. Tomas Platas. Platas and his men would drop out of the column at the midpoint of the march to set up the three mortars to shell the norteamericanos on the apex of the hill. The machine guns would be placed higher up to employ regulated grazing salvos into the enemy positions when the fighting started.
Back at the rear of the march, Suboficial Ignacio Perez worked hard to keep up with the column. His feet were already sore from so much unaccustomed walking in his boots, and the rucksack with its extra load of documents and floppy disks, pulled down on his shoulders with such weight that his arms had begun to fall asleep. He had to double-time for a few meters every few minutes, and the out-of-shape little headquarters weenie breathed hard as heavy rivulets of sweat seeped out from his cap and ran down his face.
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0600 HOURS LOCAL
THE Fire Support Element reached its step-off point and split from the Third Echelon. The latter continued on its way to the eastern side of the mountains to launch its assault up that side.
Capitan Platas showed his men some mercy by allowing them a short break. After lugging machine guns, tripods, mortar tubes, base plates and ammunition, they were in bad need of a breather. Fifteen minutes later, at the time that Ignacio Perez finally caught up with them, the mortar crews began fixing up their firing position prior to hauling out the aiming stakes to get the heavy weapons all on the same azimuth for shelling the enemy.
Ignacio, his uniform soaked in sweat and his face beet red from exertion, let his rucksack fall to the ground before he sank to his knees. Platas gazed at him with amusement.
"You should have stayed back at Fuerte Franco with the sick, lame and lazy, Ignacio. You'd be a lot better off."
Before Ignacio replied, he took a mouthful of water from his canteen, held it, then swallowed the refreshing liquid, "I wish to see some action, mi capitan."
"Most commendable," Platas said. "You will be able to take it easy back here with the mortars."
"Aren't the machine guns staying here too?" Ignacio asked.
Platas shook his head. "They must go farther up the mountain in order to be within range for enfilading and harassing fire on the norteamericanos."
Ignacio forced himself to his feet. "I will go with the machine guns, mi capitan.
"
"Then you better put on that mcksack," Platas advised him. "They're about to head out." He turned toward the machine gun squad. "You gunners! You've rested long enough. Move up into position. Ahora! Now!"
Ignacio grabbed his rucksack and stumbled after the machine gun crews who even now were lugging their weapons upward through the steep jungle terrain.
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SEAL OP EASTERN SLOPE
THE OP was well-concealed but uncomfortable as hell. Wes Ferguson and Gutsy Olson were crowded into the stand of palm brush that abounded with sharp needles on the leaves. Both had already received nasty cuts on their bare arms.
"We ought to get Purple Hearts for this," Wes complained in a whisper, dabbing at the deep scratches with a sanitary gauze pad.
"You better watch what you say," Gutsy cautioned him in a low voice. "You might end up really qualified for that medal before this is all over and done with."
"I suppose you're right," Wes said. "O' course most decorations earned on these secret missions ain't awarded until months or years after the fact." He sank into deep thought for a few moments before speaking again. "Have you ever thought about what you'll be doing after you retire from the SEALs?"
"Yeah," Gutsy said. "I've given it some thought. Krista and I both really like the San Diego area. After I retire we plan on staying there. Maybe I could get a civil service job at North Island or down in National City." He grinned. "Y'know what I mean? I'd be a double-dipper with a Navy pension and salary too:'
"That sounds like a pretty good deal," Wes said. "As for me, I don't know yet if I'm going to make a career of the Navy. I keep thinking about going back to Wichita and going out to State to get a college degree. Then law school. I've always been interested in being a lawyer. My girlfriend is a receptionist in an attorney's office."
Gutsy chuckled. "Shit, Wes. You're gonna ship over. You got that crazy look in your eye. You couldn't make it on the outside:'
Wes grinned. "You're prob'ly right. But the fact that we're going to be surrounded eventually is making civilian life look pretty godamn good right now."
"Hell!" Gutsy scoffed. "This ain't nothing. During our first mission in Afghanistan we was in a worse situation than this without long-range commo to the outside. The platoon was completely cut off, and we'd reached a point where it looked like we was gonna make a final stand and fight to the last man."
"Jesus!" Wes exclaimed. "I heard a little bit about that, but I didn't know it was that bad."
"Yeah," Gutsy said. "A chance patrol of Air Force F-16s picked up the automatic beacon from Frank's radio. They made commo and got us some air support."
A sharp crackling of a dead branch broke through the brush.
Wes grabbed the handset of the AN/PRC-126 and contacted Frank Gomez. "Brigand, this is the Oscar Papa East. It sounds like visitors are headed this way."
"Roger, Oscar Papa East," Frank replied. "Wait." A moment of radio silence followed before he spoke again. "Get your asses back to the perimeter. Out."
Gutsy and Wes eased out of the OP and began the short climb back up to the line.
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THE SEAL PERIMETER
0610 HOURS
ALL positions along the perimeter were manned with every swinging dick on full alert. The SAW gunners Bruno Puglisi and Joe Miskoski were locked, loaded and ready to respond to any part of the line where extra automatic firepower would be needed.
Within the Command Element, Brannigan walked over to James Bradley's bucolic dispensary, noting that Connie Concord was heavily sedated and barely conscious. The Skipper knelt down and got a grin from the woozy petty officer. Brannigan grinned back and winked at him. "How're you doing, Connie?"
"Huh?"
"That's okay," Brannigan said. "You're doing fine."
James nodded his head. "He's out of danger now, sir. I'm still a little worried about shock, but he's beginning to heal nicely, and I don't think there's any serious danger of infection at this point."
"Right," Brannigan said. He patted Connie lightly on the shoulder. "We'll have you out of here before you know it, tiger."
"Huh?"
Brannigan walked back to Frank Gomez and his radio. "Get over to the Second Assault Section," the Skipper said. "The senior chief needs an extra hand."
"Aye, sir," Frank said. He grabbed his CAR-15 and hurried to the southeast side of the perimeter.
Brannigan slipped down into a sitting position, leaning against the Shadowfire radio. "Well, shit," he said aloud to himself. "Here we fucking go again."
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THE SEAL PERIMETER
WESTERN SIDE
0630 HOURS LOCAL
THE loud sound of people crashing through the brush caught the combined attention of Andy Malachenko, Pech Pecheur and Guy Devereaux. Somebody was obviously charging toward them with little regard to noise discipline.
"Who the hell is that?" Pech asked. "The New Orleans Saints' defensive line?"
Guy laughed. "It sounds more like cattle stampede to me."
Figures suddenly appeared through the brush, obviously having a hell of a hard time making it up the hill. The three SEALs squeezed off a few three-round automatic fire bursts that kicked over a couple of the attackers. The others melted back out sight into the thick jungle growth.
Senior Chief Dawkins's voice came over the LASH. "It sounds like you guys are taking fire over there. Do you need any SAW support?"
Andy, as the senior man, responded. "Negative, Senior Chief. We received a half-dozen single shots, tops. We fired back and broke up the attack."
"That's odd as hell," Dawkins said. "Maybe they was snipers."
"If they are, they're the worst in the world," Andy said. "All their shots were high and wide."
"Okay," Dawkins said. "If things go bad over there, give me a holler."
THE Falangists' First Assault Echelon of the convicts was battered badly by the defenders' fire. Four of them were cut down in the fusillades that swept through the first rank. The rest of the prisoners instinctively turned and ran away from the murderous swarms of bullets smacking through the air around them.
Capitan Pablo Gonzales was infuriated when he perceived the former inmates charging through the trees toward him. "Fire at those hijos de chingadas!" he screamed at his men. "Give them some bursts over their heads!"
As soon as the bullets hit the tree trunks, sending down leaves and hunks of bark, the convicts came to a stop. They were in that very unique and unpleasant position of being damned if they do, and damned if they don't. The confused men looked at Gordo Pullini. He hesitated a moment, then another salvo splattered the trees above them. He knew the next one would be lower.
"All right, guys!" he yelled. "Turn around and go back up the hill!"
Now more frightened of the threat to their rear than the front, the convicts stumbled around and once again pushed through the brush toward the mountaintop. The angry, frightened men staggered fifteen meters before Pullini yelled at them again. "Halt! Halt! Start shooting at those guys ahead of us."
They worked triggers and bolts, sending a pitifully weak spattering of shots toward the defenders.
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IGNACIO Perez sucked hot, humid air into his lungs as he toiled after the machine gunners ascending the mountain to his direct front. The rucksack crammed with documents and floppy disks of the intelligence information he had stolen felt like it was trying to pull him to level ground. He had a pistol for protection but gave it no thought in the overwhelming exhaustion and pain that made his legs feel as if they weighed a ton each.
The training and discipline he acquired in the Spanish Foreign Legion was proving helpful in the way he was being careful with his water. He took only occasional sips, holding them in his mouth a few moments before swallowing them. But his body, unaccustomed to hard physical activity after months in headquarters work, was beginning to rebel against the unkind treatment it was receiving. Cramps rippled through his legs, and his feet felt as if they were on fire in the he
avy military leather boots.
Up ahead, the gunners were having their own troubles. The six-kilo weight of machine guns and the ten in the ammunition boxes of linked belts, made each step a separate agony, but they continued moving to higher ground to have the weapons within effective range of the enemy.
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A Falangist skirmish line came into contact with the First Assault Section when the SEALs perceived movement a scant few meters to their front. Firing immediately broke out between the two groups, but no casualties were suffered by either side. After a few minutes of exchanging shots, the Falangists suddenly advanced forward, putting out a curtain of slugs from their CETME rifles on full automatic.
Bruno Puglisi increased the bursts from his SAW, swinging the bore from one end of the attack formation to other. Twigs, leaves and bark from trees were scattered by the intense salvos. The Odd Couple, coordinating their actions through ESP as usual, tossed out a couple M-67 hand grenades. They threw the explosives just above the brush but below the limbs of the trees. The detonations rocked the immediate area, and the Falangists broke off their attack.
From that point on, all the combatants stayed low, exchanging fire in a skirmish that had turned into a stalemate.
* * *
CORONEL Jeronimo Busch was in his element as he moved through the brush with the efficiency of a hunting tiger. His companions Punzarron, Chaubere and Muller were slightly to his rear in a V formation. The equipo comando counted on furtiveness and concealment more than speed as they made their way toward the norteamericanos' position to make contact on their own terms. They were on the northwest side of the battle, taking the precaution of stopping from time to time to simply listen to what was going on around them.
The next time they halted and sank down to kneeling positions, they perceived heavy firing on the north side and sporadic shots to the west. Punzarron chuckled and whispered into his LASH. "It would seem the convicts and their rifles are not making much of a show, eh?"
"They're out there simply to draw fire:' Busch replied. Muller wiped at the sweat on his face. "Bueno, they are making a damn good job of it."